[
  {
    "heading": "Letter I",
    "body": "_Thursday Evening_ [_Dec_. 6_th_, 1787].\n\nMADAM,--I had set no small store by my tea-drinking tonight, and have\nnot often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall embrace the\nopportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave this town this day\nse'ennight, and, probably, for a couple of twelvemonths; but must ever\nregret that I so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem,\nand in whose welfare I shall ever be warmly interested.\n\nOur worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied me a good\ndeal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her ideas I wrote some\nlines, which I inclose you, as I think they have a good deal of poetic\nmerit: and Miss Nimmo tells me you are not only a critic, but a poetess.\nFiction, you know, is the native region of poetry; and I hope you will\npardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tolerably off-hand\n_jeu-d'esprit_. I have several poetic trifles, which I shall gladly\nleave with Miss Nimmo, or you, if they were worth house room; as there\nare scarcely two people on earth by whom it would mortify me more to be\nforgotten, though at the distance of ninescore miles.--I am, Madam, with\nthe highest respect, your very humble servant,\n\nROBERT BURNS.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter II",
    "body": "_Saturday Evening, Dec_. 8_th_, 1787.\n\nI can say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a person in my life\nwhom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To-night I was\nto have had that very great pleasure; I was intoxicated with the idea,\nbut an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees, that I\ncan't stir my leg; so if I don't see you again, I shall not rest in my\ngrave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not seen you sooner; I\ndetermined to cultivate your friendship with the enthusiasm of religion;\nbut thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving\nEdinburgh without seeing you. I know not how to account for it--I am\nstrangely taken with some people, nor am I often mistaken. You are a\nstranger to me; but I am an odd being: some yet unnamed feelings,\nthings, not principles, but better than whims, carry me farther than\nboasted reason ever did a philosopher. Farewell! every happiness be\nyours! ROBERT BURNS.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter III",
    "body": "_Dec_. 12, 1787.\n\nI stretch a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your card on\nthe rack of my present agony. Your friendship, Madam! By heavens, I was\nnever proud before. Your lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and good\npoetry; mine were indeed partly fiction and partly a friendship, which,\nhad I been so blest as to have met with you in time, might have led\nme--god of love only knows where. Time is too short for ceremonies. I\nswear solemnly, in all the tenor of my former oath, to remember you in\nall the pride and warmth of friendship until I cease to be! To-morrow,\nand every day till I see you, you shall hear from me. Farewell! May you\nenjoy a better night's repose than I am likely to have. R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter IV",
    "body": "_Thursday, Dec_. 20, 1787.\n\nYour last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job's situation had\non his friends when they sat down seven days and seven nights astonished\nand spake not a word. \"Pay my addresses to a married woman!\" I started\nas if I had seen the ghost of him I had injured. I recollected my\nexpressions; some of them were indeed in the law phrase \"habit and\nrepute,\" which is being half guilty. I cannot possibly say, Madam,\nwhether my heart might not have gone astray a little; but I can declare\nupon the honour of a poet that the vagrant has wandered unknown to me. I\nhave a pretty handsome troop of follies of my own, and, like some other\npeople's, they are but undisciplined blackguards; but the luckless\nrascals have something like honour in them--they would not do a\ndishonest thing.\n\nTo meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, deserted and\nwidowed by those who were bound by every tie of duty, nature, and\ngratitude to protect, comfort and cherish her; add to all, when she is\nperhaps one of the first of lovely forms and noble minds--the mind, too,\nthat hits one's taste as the joys of Heaven do a saint--should a faint\nidea, the natural child of imagination, thoughtfully peep over the\nfence--were you, my friend, to sit in judgment, and the poor, airy\nstraggler brought before you, trembling, self-condemned, with artless\neyes, brimful of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge--you could\nnot, my dear Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to death without benefit\nof clergy? I won't tell you what reply my heart made to your raillery of\nseven years, but I will give you what a brother of my trade says on the\nsame allusion:--\n\n  The patriarch to gain a wife,\n  Chaste, beautiful, and young,\n  Served fourteen years a painful life,\n  And never thought it long.\n\n  O were you to reward such cares,\n    And life so long would stay,\n  Not fourteen but four hundred years\n    Would seem but as a day.[62]\n\nI have written you this scrawl because I have nothing else to do, and\nyou may sit down and find fault with it, if you have no better way of\nconsuming your time. But finding fault with the vagaries of a poet's\nfancy is much such another business as Xerxes chastising the waves of\nHellespont.\n\nMy limb now allows me to sit in some peace: to walk I have yet no\nprospect of, as I can't mark it to the ground.\n\nI have just now looked over what I have written, and it is such a chaos\nof nonsense that I daresay you will throw it into the fire and call me\nan idle, stupid fellow; but, whatever you may think of my brains,\nbelieve me to be, with the most sacred respect and heart-felt esteem, my\ndear Madam, your humble Servant, ROBT. BURNS.\n\n   [Footnote 62: Tom D'Urfey's Songs.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter V",
    "body": "_Friday Evening_, 28_th December_ 1787.\n\nI beg your pardon, my dear \"Clarinda,\" for the fragment scrawl I sent\nyou yesterday. I really do not know what I wrote. A gentleman, for whose\ncharacter, abilities, and critical knowledge I have the highest\nveneration, called in just as I had begun the second sentence, and I\nwould not make the porter wait. I read to my much-respected friend\nseveral of my own bagatelles, and, among others, your lines, which I had\ncopied out. He began some criticisms on them as on the other pieces,\nwhen I informed him they were the work of a young lady in this town,\nwhich, I assure you, made him stare. My learned friend seriously\nprotested that he did not believe any young woman in Edinburgh was\ncapable of such lines; and if you know anything of Professor Gregory,\nyou will neither doubt of his abilities nor his sincerity. I do love\nyou, if possible, still better for having so fine a taste and turn for\npoesy. I have again gone wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you may\nerase the word, and put esteem, respect, or any other tame Dutch\nexpression you please in its place. I believe there is no holding\nconverse, or carrying on correspondence, with an amiable woman, much\nless a _gloriously amiable fine woman_, without some mixture of that\ndelicious passion, whose most devoted slave I have more than once had\nthe honour of being. But why be hurt or offended on that account? Can no\nhonest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he must run his\nhead against an intrigue? Take a little of the tender witchcraft of\nlove, and add to it the generous, the honourable sentiments of manly\nfriendship, and I know but _one_ more delightful morsel, which few, few\nin any rank ever taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to\nstrawberries; it not only gives the fruit a more elegant richness, but\nhas a deliciousness of its own.\n\nI inclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy occasion. I\nwill not give above five or six copies of it in all, and I should be\nhurt if any friend should give any copies without my consent.\n\nYou cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a\ncommerce of this kind), how much store I have set by the hopes of your\nfuture friendship. I do not know if you have a just idea of my\ncharacter, but I wish you to see me as _I am_. I am, as most people of\nmy trade are, a strange Will-o'-Wisp being: the victim, too frequently,\nof much imprudence and many follies. My great constituent elements are\n_pride_ and _passion_. The first I have endeavoured to humanise into\nintegrity and honour; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree\nof enthusiasm, in love, religion, or friendship--either of them, or all\ntogether, as I happen to be inspired. 'Tis true, I never saw you but\nonce; but how much acquaintance did I form with you in that once? Do not\nthink I flatter you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda; I have too\nmuch pride for the one, and too little cold contrivance for the other;\nbut of all God's creatures I ever could approach in the beaten way of my\nacquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the strongest, the most\npermanent impression. I say the most permanent, because I know myself\nwell, and how far I can promise either on my prepossessions or powers.\nWhy are you unhappy? And why are so many of our fellow-creatures,\nunworthy to belong to the same species with you, blest with all they can\nwish? You have a hand all benevolent to give-why were you denied the\npleasure? You have a heart formed--gloriously formed--for all the most\nrefined luxuries of love:-why was that heart ever wrung? O Clarinda!\nshall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of being, where the\nlavish hand of plenty shall minister to the highest wish of benevolence;\nand where the chill north-wind of prudence shall never blow over the\nflowery fields of enjoyment? If we do not, man was made in vain! I\ndeserved most of the unhappy hours that have lingered over my head; they\nwere the wages of my labour: but what unprovoked demon, malignant as\nhell, stole upon the confidence of unmistrusting busy Fate, and dashed\nyour cup of life with undeserved sorrow?\n\nLet me know how long your stay will be out of town; I shall count the\nhours till you inform me of your return. Cursed _etiquette_ forbids your\nseeing me just now; and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edinburgh\nadieu. Lord! why was I born to see misery which I cannot relieve, and to\nmeet with friends whom I cannot enjoy? I look back with the pang of\nunavailing avarice on my loss in not knowing you sooner: all last\nwinter, these three months past, what luxury of intercourse have I not\nlost! Perhaps, though,'twas better for my peace. You see I am either\nabove, or incapable of dissimulation. I believe it is want of that\nparticular genius. I despise design, because I want either coolness or\nwisdom to be capable of it. I am interrupted. Adieu! my dear Clarinda!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter VI",
    "body": "_Thursday, Jan_. 3, 1788.\n\nYou are right, my dear Clarinda: a friendly correspondence goes for\nnothing, except one writes his or her undisguised sentiments. Yours\nplease me for their instrinsic merit, as well as because they are\n_yours_, which I assure you, is to me a high recommendation. Your\nreligious sentiments, Madam, I revere. If you have, on some suspicious\nevidence, from some lying oracle, learned that I despise or ridicule so\nsacredly important a matter as real religion, you have, my Clarinda,\nmuch misconstrued your friend. \"I am not mad, most noble Festus!\" Have\nyou ever met a perfect character? Do we not sometimes rather exchange\nfaults, than get rid of them? For instance, I am perhaps tired with, and\nshocked at a life too much the prey of giddy inconsistencies and\nthoughtless follies; by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and statedly\npious--I say statedly, because the most unaffected devotion is not at\nall inconsistent with my first character--I join the world in\ncongratulating myself on the happy change. But let me pry more narrowly\ninto this affair. Have I, at bottom, any thing of a sacred pride in\nthese endowments and emendations? Have I nothing of a presbyterian\nsourness, an hypocritical severity, when I survey my less regular\nneighbours? In a word, have I missed all those nameless and numberless\nmodifications of indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own eyes,\nthat we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and\nwhich the known spotless cambric of our character hides from the\nordinary observer?\n\nMy definition of worth is short; truth and humanity respecting our\nfellow-creatures; reverence and humility in the presence of that Being,\nmy Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every reason to believe, will\none day be my Judge. The first part of my definition is the creature of\nunbiassed instinct; the last is the child of after reflection. Where I\nfound these two essentials I would gently note and slightly mention any\nattendant flaws--flaws, the marks, the consequences of human nature.\n\nI can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your strong\nimagination and keen sensibility must derive from religion, particularly\nif a little in the shade of misfortune; but I own I cannot, without a\nmarked grudge, see Heaven totally engross so amiable, so charming a\nwoman, as my friend Clarinda; and should be very well pleased at _a\ncircumstance_ that would put it in the power of somebody (happy\nsomebody!) to divide her attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness\nof an earthly attachment.\n\nYou will not easily persuade me that you have not a grammatical\nknowledge of the English language. So far from being inaccurate, you are\nelegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except one,--whom I\nwish you knew.\n\nYour last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have got an\nexcellent old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall see them\nin print in the Scots _Musical Museum_, a work publishing by a friend of\nmine in this town. I want four stanzas, you gave me but three, and one\nof them alluded to an expression in my former letter; so I have taken\nyour two first verses, with a slight alteration in the second, and have\nadded a third, but you must help me to a fourth. Here they are; the\nlatter half of the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho; I am\nin raptures with it.\n\n  Talk not of Love, it gives me pain,\n    For Love has been my foe:\n  He bound me with an iron chain,\n    And sunk me deep in woe.\n\n  But Friendship's pure and lasting joys\n    My heart was formed to prove:\n  There welcome, win and wear the prize,\n    But never talk of Love.\n\n  Your friendship much can make me blest,\n    O why that bliss destroy!\n               [only]\n  Why urge the odious one request,\n               [will]\n    You know I must deny.\n\nThe alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there was a\nslight inaccuracy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to your choice,\nand have left two words for your determination. The air is \"The banks of\nSpey,\" and is most beautiful.\n\nTo-morrow evening I intend taking a chair, and paying a visit at Park\nPlace to a much-valued old friend.[63] If I could be sure of finding you\nat home (and I will send one of the chairmen to call), I would spend\nfrom five to six o'clock with you, as I go past. I cannot do more at\nthis time, as I have something on my hand that hurries me much. I\npropose giving you the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss\nNimmo as I return home. Do not break any engagement for me, as I will\nspend another evening with you at any rate before I leave town.\n\nDo not tell me that you are pleased, when your friends inform you of\nyour faults. I am ignorant what they are; but I am sure they must be\nsuch evanescent trifles, compared with your personal and mental\naccomplishments, that I would despise the ungenerous narrow soul, who\nwould notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have, any other\nway than in the most delicate agreeable raillery. Coarse minds are not\naware how much they injure the keenly feeling tie of bosom friendship,\nwhen, in their foolish officiousness, they mention what nobody cares for\nrecollecting. People of nice sensibility, and generous minds, have a\ncertain intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled with, or lowered,\nor even too nearly approached.\n\nYou need make no apology for long letters; I am even with you. Many\nhappy new years to you, charming Clarinda! I can't dissemble, were it to\nshun perdition. He who sees you as I have done, and does not love you,\ndeserves to be damn'd for his stupidity! He who loves you, and would\ninjure you, deserves to be doubly damn'd for his villany! Adieu.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\nP.S. What would you think of this for a fourth stanza?\n\n  Your thought, if love must harbour there,\n    Conceal it in that thought,\n  Nor cause me from my bosom tear\n    The very friend I sought.\n\n   [Footnote 63: Probably Mr. Nicol, who lived in Buccleuch Pend, a\n   short distance from Clarinda's residence.]\n\n       *        *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter VII",
    "body": "_Saturday Noon_ [_5th January_].\n\nSome days, some nights, nay, some _hours_, like the \"ten righteous\npersons in Sodom,\" save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miserable\nmonths and years of life. One of these hours my dear Clarinda blest me\nwith yesternight.\n\n  One well-spent hour,\n  In such a tender circumstance for friends,\n  Is better than an age of common time!\n\nTHOMSON.\n\nMy favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his manly fortitude in\nsupporting what cannot be remedied--in short, the wild broken fragments\nof a noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a\nfavourite hero of mine.\n\nI mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my life:\nit is truth, every word of it; and will give you a just idea of the man\nwhom you have honoured with your friendship. I am afraid you will hardly\nbe able to make sense of so torn a piece. Your verses I shall muse on,\ndeliciously, as I gaze on your image in my mind's eye, in my heart's\ncore: they will be in time enough for a week to come. I am truly happy\nyour headache is better. O, how can pain or evil be so daringly\nunfeeling, cruelly savage, as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely\na form!\n\nMy little fellow is all my namesake. Write me soon. My every, strongest\ngood wishes attend you, Clarinda!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\nI know not what I have written--I am pestered with people around me.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter VIII",
    "body": "_Jan. 8, 1788, Tuesday Night._\n\nI am delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm for\nreligion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are\nlukewarm in that most important of all things, \"O my soul, come not thou\ninto their secrets!\" I feel myself deeply interested in your good\nopinion, and will lay before you the outlines of my belief. He who is\nour Author and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must be (not\nfor his sake in the way of duty, but from the native impulse of our\nhearts), the object of our reverential awe and grateful adoration: He is\nAlmighty and all-bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and\nevery other sort of devotion. \"He is not willing that any should perish,\nbut that all should come to everlasting life;\" consequently it must be\nin every one's power to embrace his offer of \"everlasting life;\"\notherwise he could not, in justice, condemn those who did not. A mind\npervaded, actuated, and governed by purity, truth, and charity, though\nit does not merit heaven, yet is an absolute necessary prerequisite,\nwithout which heaven can neither be obtained nor enjoyed; and, by divine\npromise, such a mind shall never fail of attaining \"everlasting life;\"\nhence the impure, the deceiving, and the uncharitable extrude themselves\nfrom eternal bliss, by their unfitness for enjoying it. The Supreme\nBeing has put the immediate administration of all this, for wise and\ngood ends known to himself, into the hands of Jesus Christ, a great\npersonage, whose relation to him we cannot comprehend, but whose\nrelation to us is a guide and Saviour; and who, except for our own\nobstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all, through various ways, and\nby various means, to bliss at last.\n\nThese are my tenets, my lovely friend; and which I think cannot well be\ndisputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of\nJamie Dean's grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire,--\"Lord, grant that we\nmay lead a gude life; for a gude life maks a gude end, at least it\nhelps weel!\"\n\nI am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found in my\npacket. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and may guess at\nwhat I am likely to be. I too may say, \"Talk not of love,\" etc., for\nindeed he has \"plunged me deep in woe!\" Not that I ever saw a woman who\npleased unexceptionably, as my Clarinda elegantly says, \"in the\ncompanion, the friend, and the mistress.\" _One_ indeed I could\nexcept--_One_, before passion threw its mists over my discernment, I\nknew--_the_ first of women! Her name is indelibly written in my heart's\ncore--but I dare not look in on it--a degree of agony would be the\nconsequence. Oh! thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making demon, who\npresidest over that frantic passion--thou mayest, thou dost poison my\npeace, but thou shalt not taint my honour. I would not, for a single\nmoment, give an asylum to the most distant imagination, that would\nshadow the faintest outline of a selfish gratification, at the expense\nof her whose happiness is twisted with the threads of my existence.--May\nshe be as happy as she deserves! and if my tenderest, faithfullest\nfriendship, can add to her bliss, I shall at least have one solid mine\nof enjoyment in my bosom! _Don't guess at these ravings_!\n\nI watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed. It has been\na day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two hours' bout after\nsupper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common\nwith me but the Port.--_One!_--Tis now \"witching time of night;\" and\nwhatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to\nenchantments and spells; for I can't look over it, but will seal it up\ndirectly, as I don't care for to-morrow's criticisms on it.\n\nYou are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda; may good angels attend and\nguard you as constantly and faithfully as my good wishes do.\n\n  Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,\n  Shot forth peculiar graces.\n\nJohn Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on my own pillow\nto-night! O for a little of the cart-horse part of human nature! Good\nnight, my dearest Clarinda!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nIX\n\n_Thursday Noon_, 10_th January_ 1788.\n\nI am certain I saw you, Clarinda; but you don't look to the proper\nstorey for a poet's lodging--\n\n  Where speculation roosted near the sky.\n\nI could almost have thrown myself over for vexation. Why didn't you look\nhigher? It has spoiled my peace for this day. To be so near my charming\nClarinda; to miss her look while it was searching for me--I am sure the\nsoul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into an\ninflammatory fever.\n\nYou have converted me, Clarinda. (I shall love that name while I live:\nthere is heavenly music in it.) Booth and Amelia I know well.[64] Your\nsentiments on that subject, as they are on every subject, are just and\nnoble. \"To be feelingly alive to kindness, and to unkindness,\" is a\ncharming female character.\n\nWhat I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling sociality only\nknow for me. By yours, I understand my good star has been partly in my\nhorizon, when I got wild in my reveries. Had that evil planet, which has\nalmost all my life shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, been, as\nusual, in my zenith, I had certainly blabbed something that would have\npointed out to you the dear object of my tenderest friendship, and, in\nspite of me, something more. Had that fatal information escaped me, and\nit was merely chance, or kind stars, that it did not, I had been undone!\n\nYou would never have written me, except perhaps _once_ more! O, I could\ncurse circumstances, and the coarse tie of human laws, which keeps fast\nwhat common sense would loose, and which bars that happiness itself\ncannot give--happiness which otherwise Love and Honour would warrant!\nBut hold--I shall make no more \"hair-breadth 'scapes.\"\n\nMy friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings are both\nstrong and eternal. I told you I had but one male friend: I have but two\nfemale. I should have a third, but she is surrounded by the\nblandishments of flattery and courtship. The name I register in my\nheart's core is _Peggy Chalmers_. Miss Nimmo can tell you how divine she\nis. She is worthy of a place in the same bosom with my Clarinda. That is\nthe highest compliment I can pay her.\n\nFarewell, Clarinda! Remember\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 64: See Fielding's _Amelia_.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter X",
    "body": "_Saturday Morning_, 12_th January_.\n\nYour thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may perhaps\ndistrust me, when I say 'tis also my favourite topic; but mine is the\nreligion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a controversial divinity;\nas I firmly believe, that every honest upright man, of whatever sect,\nwill be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to hint,\ncontain censure, except you want an occasion to break with me, don't\nsend them. I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that where I\nfondly love, or highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach.\n\n\"Reverence thyself\" is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish it. I think\nI told you Lord Bolingbroke's saying to Swift--\"Adieu, dear Swift, with\nall thy faults I love thee entirely; make an effort to love me with all\nmine.\" A glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no\nfriendship! I do highly, very highly, esteem you indeed, Clarinda--you\nmerit it all! Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimulation! I could fondly love\nyou: judge then what a maddening sting your reproach would be. \"O! I\nhave sins to _Heaven_ but none to _you!_\" With what pleasure would I\nmeet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet the fly. I hope to be able to\nsee you on _foot_ about the middle of next week.\n\nI am interrupted--perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell\nme--but I won't anticipate blame. O Clarinda! did you know how dear to\nme is your look of kindness, your smile of approbation! you would not,\neither in prose or verse, risk a censorious remark.\n\n  Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,\n  That tends to make one worthy man my foe!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XI",
    "body": "_Saturday_, _Jan_. 12, 1788.\n\nYou talk of weeping, Clarinda! Some involuntary drops wet your lines as\nI read them. _Offend me_, my dearest angel! You cannot offend me, you\nnever offended me! If you had ever given me the least shadow of offence\nso pardon me, God, as I forgive Clarinda! I have read yours again; it\nhas blotted my paper. Though I find your letter has agitated me into a\nviolent headache, I shall take a chair and be with you about eight. A\nfriend is to be with us to tea on my account, which hinders me from\ncoming sooner. Forgive, my dearest Clarinda, my unguarded expressions.\nFor Heaven's sake, forgive me, or I shall never be able to bear my own\nmind. Your unhappy Sylvander.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XII",
    "body": "_Monday Evening_, 11 _o'clock_, 14_th January_.\n\nWhy have I not heard from you, Clarinda? To-day I expected it; and\nbefore supper when a letter to me was announced, my heart danced with\nrapture: but behold, 'twas some fool, who had taken it into his head to\nturn poet, and made me an offering of the first-fruits of his nonsense.\n\"It is not poetry, but prose run mad.\" Did I ever repeat to you an\nepigram I made on a Mr. Elphinstone,[65] who has given a translation of\nMartial, a famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphinstone can only equal\nhis prose notes. I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaintance,\nwaiting somebody; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and asked my opinion\nof it; I begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did,--\n\n  TO MR. ELPHINSTONE.\n\n  O thou, whom poesy abhors!\n  Whom prose has turned out of doors!\n  Heardst thou yon groan? proceed no further!\n  'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther!\n\nI am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday evening.\nNext week I must sing--\n\n  The night is my departing night,\n    The morn's the day I maun awa;\n  There's neither friend nor foe o' mine\n    But wishes that I were awa!\n  What I hae done for lack o' wit,\n    I never, never can reca';\n  I hope ye're a' my friends as yet,\n    Gude night, and joy be wi' you a'!\n\nIf I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I would\nnot purchase the _dearest gratification_ on earth, if it must be at your\nexpense in worldly censure, far less inward peace!\n\nI shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of\nincoherence. The only _unity_ (a sad word with poets and critics!) in my\nideas, is CLARINDA. There my heart \"reigns and revels.\"\n\n  What art thou, Love? whence are those charms,\n   That thus thou bear'st an universal rule?\n  For thee the soldier quits his arms,\n   The king turns slave, the wise man fool.\n  In vain we chase thee from the field,\n   And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke:\n  Next tide of blood, alas! we yield;\n   And all those high resolves are broke!\n\nI like to have quotations for every occasion They give one's ideas so\npat, and save one the trouble of finding expression adequate to one's\nfeelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic\ngenius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, etc., an embodied\nform in verse, which, to me, is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says\nfinely of his Muse--\n\n  Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe;\n  Thou foundst me poor at first, and keep'st me so.\n\nMy limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down stairs\noften without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my own\nlegs to dinner. It is only next street.--Adieu. Sylvander.\n\n   [Footnote 65: A native of Edinburgh, and a schoolmaster in London. He\n   was a friend of Samuel Johnson]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XIII",
    "body": "_Tuesday Evening_, _Jan_. 15.\n\nThat you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted; but I knew not where\nthey existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than ever. O\nClarinda! why will you wound my soul, by hinting that last night must\nhave lessened my opinion of you? True, I was \"behind the scenes with\nyou;\" but what did I see? A bosom glowing with honour and benevolence; a\nmind ennobled by genius, informed and refined by education and\nreflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the climes of\nheaven: a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship,\nlove, and pity. These I saw--I saw the noblest immortal soul creation\never showed me.\n\nI looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed that you\nare complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your idea,\nthat the commerce you have with _one_ friend hurts you, if you cannot\ntell every tittle of it to _another_. Why have so injurious a suspicion\nof a good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the\nsacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion! can be\nanything else than an object of His divine approbation.\n\nI have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening next. Do\nallow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel! how soon must we\npart! and when can we meet again! I look forward on the horrid interval\nwith tearful eyes! What have I lost by not knowing you sooner. I fear, I\nfear my acquaintance with you is too short, to make that _lasting_\nimpression on your heart I could wish.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XIV",
    "body": "_Saturday Morning_, 19_th Jan_\n\nThere is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of\nLove and Friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of what\nour favourite Thomson calls, \"philosophic melancholy.\" The sportive\ninsects, who bask in the sunshine of prosperity; or the worms that\nluxuriantly crawl amid their ample wealth of earth, they need no\nClarinda: they would despise Sylvander--if they durst. The family of\nMisfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters! they need a\nresting place to their souls: unnoticed, often condemned by the\nworld--in some degree, perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the\nfull enjoyment of ardent love, delicate tender endearments, mutual\nesteem and mutual reliance.\n\nIn this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are\nwrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a\ncompassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear.\n\n  '_Tis this_, my friend, that streaks our morning bright;\n  '_Tis this_ that gilds the horrors of our night.'\n\nI have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says,\n\"the dark postern of time long elaps'd;\" and, you will easily\nguess,'twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness,\nweakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a ruined temple; what\nstrength, what proportion in some parts! what unsightly gaps, what\nprostrate ruin in others! I kneeled down before the Father of mercies,\nand said, \"Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and\nam no more worthy to be called thy son!\" I rose, eased and strengthened.\nI despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a\nman. \"The future,\" said I to myself, \"is still before me;\" there let me\n\n        on reason build resolve,\n  That column of true majesty in man!\n\n\"I have difficulties many to encounter,\" said I; \"but they are not\nabsolutely insuperable; and where is firmness of mind shown but in\nexertion? mere declamation is bombast rant.\" Besides, wherever I am, or\nin whatever situation I may be--\n\n             'Tis nought to me:\n  Since God is ever present, ever felt,\n  In the void waste as in the city full;\n  And where He vital breathes, there must be joy!\n\n\n_Saturday night--half after Ten_.\n\nWhat luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight! My ever\ndearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul; but you have refined,\nyou have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense for virtue, and\na stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex, if ever I am\nthe veriest wretch on earth to forget you, if ever your lovely image is\neffaced from my soul,\n\n  May I be lost, no eye to weep my end;\n  And find no earth that's base enough to bury me!\n\nWhat trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day\nchildren of the world! 'tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of\nthe fields and forests; but where Sentiment and Fancy unite their\nsweets, where Taste and Delicacy refine, where Wit adds the flavour, and\nGood Sense gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is\nthe hour of tender endearment! Beauty and Grace, in the arms of Truth\nand Honour, in all the luxury of mutual love.\n\nClarinda, have you ever seen the picture realised? Not in all its very\nrichest colouring.\n\nLast night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the glorious\npicture.\n\n                        Innocence\n  Look'd gaily smiling on; while rosy Pleasure\n  Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath,\n  And pour'd her cup luxuriant; mantling high,\n  The sparkling heavenly vintage, Love and Bliss!\n\nClarinda, when a poet and poetess of Nature's making, two of Nature's\nnoblest productions! when they drink together of the same cup of Love\nand Bliss--attempt not, ye coarser stuff of human nature, profanely to\nmeasure enjoyment ye never can know! Good night, my dear Clarinda!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nXV\n\n_Sunday Night_, 20_th January_.\n\nThe impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old\nindisposition, to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain\nbefore me all this evening, to write to my dear Clarinda, but--\n\n  Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to waves.\n\nI cursed them in my soul; they sacrilegiously disturbed my meditations\non her who holds my heart. What a creature is man! A little alarm last\nnight and to-day, that I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my\nspirits! There is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to the\nmind. I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. 'Tis the wild\nravings of an imaginary hero in bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda; I can\nscarcely hold up my head; but I am happy you do not know it, you would\nbe so uneasy.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n\n_Monday Morning_.\n\nI am, my lovely friend, much better this morning on the whole; but I\nhave a horrid languor on my spirits.\n\n  Sick of the world, and all its joys,\n    My soul in pining sadness mourns;\n  Dark scenes of woe my mind employs,\n    The past and present in their turns.\n\nHave you ever met with a saying of the great, and like wise good Mr.\nLocke, author of the famous _Essay on the Human Understanding_? He wrote\na letter to a friend, directing it, \"not to be delivered till after my\ndecease;\" it ended thus--\"I know you loved me when living, and will\npreserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is, that\nthis life affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of\nhaving done well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu! I leave my best\nwishes with you. J. LOCKE.\"\n\nClarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I may. Thou\nAlmighty Preserver of men! thy friendship, which hitherto I have too\nmuch neglected, to secure it shall, all the future days and nights of my\nlife, be my steady care! The idea of my Clarinda follows--\n\n  Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,\n  Where, mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies.\n\nBut I fear that inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human\nweakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of absence,\nand the chances and changes of fortune? Perhaps \"such things are;\" _one\nhonest_ man[65a] I have great hopes from that way: but who, except a\nromance writer, would think on a _love_ that could promise for life, in\nspite of distance, absence, chance, and change; and that, too, with\nslender hopes of fruition? For my own part, I can say to myself in both\nrequisitions, \"Thou art the man!\" I dare, in cool resolve I dare,\ndeclare myself that friend, and that lover. If womankind is capable of\nsuch things, Clarinda is. I trust that she is; and I feel I shall be\nmiserable if she is not. There is not one virtue which gives worth, or\none sentiment which does honour to the sex, that she does not possess\nsuperior to any woman I ever saw; her exalted mind, aided a little\nperhaps by her situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic\nlove-enthusiasm.\n\nMay I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next Wednesday\nagain will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. I tremble for\ncensorious remark, for your sake, but, in extraordinary cases, may not\nusual and useful precaution be a little dispensed with? Three evenings,\nthree swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past; I\ndare not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss Nimmo's to-morrow\nevening;'twill be a farewell call.\n\nI have wrote out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my last\nhalf-sheet. What a strange mysterious faculty is that thing called\nimagination! We have no ideas almost at all of another world; but I have\noften amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be\nenjoyed by small alterations--alterations that we can fully enter into,\nin this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I,\njust as we are at present; the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and\neven desires; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking\nobservation in our minds; and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the\nnecessary supplies for the wants of nature at all times, and easily,\nwithin our reach: imagine further, that we were set free from the laws\nof gravitation, which bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly,\nwithout inconvenience, through all the yet unconjectured bounds of\ncreation, what a life of bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit of\nvirtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love!\n\nI see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous\nMahometan; but I am certain I would be a happy creature, beyond anything\nwe call bliss here below; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you\ntoo. Don't you see us, hand in hand, or rather, my arm about your lovely\nwaist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars; or\nsurveying a comet, flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would mark\nthe passing pomp of a travelling monarch; or in a shady bower of Mercury\nor Venus, dedicating the hour to love, in mutual converse, relying\nhonour, and revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted strains of\npoesy and harmony would be the ready spontaneous language of our souls!\nDevotion is the favourite employment of your heart; so it is of mine:\nwhat incentives then to, and powers for reverence, 'gratitude, faith,\nand hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being,\nwhose unsearchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so pervaded, so inspired\nevery sense and feeling! By this time, I daresay, you will be blessing\nthe neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 65a: Alluding to Captain Brown.]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XVI",
    "body": "[_Monday_, 21_st Jan_. 1788.]\n\n... I am a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda, if ever you\nforget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be miserable. O what a\nfool I am in love! What an extraordinary prodigal of affection! Why are\nyour sex called the tender sex, when I have never met with one who can\nrepay me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I am, or\nthey are niggards where I am lavish.\n\nO Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou seest me here, the\nhapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom: do Thou direct to\nThyself that ardent love for which I have so often sought a return in\nvain from my fellow-creatures! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift in\nstore for me as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest,\nis dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our bond of love and\nfriendship; watch over us in all our outgoings and incomings for good:\nand may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the\nthread of man's immortal life!...\n\nI am just going to take your \"Blackbird,\"[66] the sweetest, I am sure,\nthat ever sung, and prune its wings a little.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 66: Her verses, \"To a Blackbird Singing.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XVII",
    "body": "_Thursday Morning_, 24_th January._\n\nUnlavish Wisdom never works in vain.\n\nI have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for native\ngenius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and\nthe sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal\ncharms have few, very very few parallels, among her sex; why, or how she\nshould fall to the blessed lot of a poor _hairum scairum_ poet, whom\nFortune had kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever\nshe was in ill humour. One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the\nmost capricious jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of\nremorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the\nmire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her as a stepping\nstone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had in her gift,\nmerely for the maggot's sake, to see how his fool head and his fool\nheart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think, that\nNature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the\ncoquettish goddess some such hint as, \"Here is a paragon of female\nexcellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was\nlucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again; you have\ncast her rather in the shades of life; there is a certain Poet of my\nmaking; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this\nmasterpiece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind,\nwhich no woman, of any age, ever more deserved, and which few rhymsters\nof this age are better able to confer.\"\n\n\n_Evening_, 9 _o'clock._\n\nI am here, absolutely unfit to finish my letter--pretty hearty after a\nbowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I\nhave been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he has set it[66a]\nfinely.----I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that I have drunk\nyour health twice to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in\nthis world.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 66a: \"Clarinda, Mistress of my Soul, etc.\"--See Poems.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XVIII",
    "body": "[_Friday, Jan_. 25.]\n\nClarinda, my life, you have wounded my soul. Can I think of your being\nunhappy, even though it be not described in your pathetic elegance of\nlanguage, without being miserable? Clarinda, can I bear to be told from\nyou that you \"will not see me to-morrow night\"--that you \"wish the hour\nof parting were come?\" Do not let us impose on ourselves by sounds. If\nin the moment of tender endearment I perhaps trespassed against the\nletter of decorum's law I appeal even to you whether I ever sinned in\nthe very least degree against the spirit of her strictest statute. But\nwhy, my love, talk to me in such strong terms?--every word of which cuts\nme to the very soul. You know a hint, the slightest signification of\nyour wish is to me a sacred command. Be reconciled, my angel, to your\nGod, yourself, and me: and I pledge you Sylvander's honour--an oath I\ndaresay you will trust without reserve--that you shall never more have\nreason to complain of his conduct. Now, my love, do not wound our next\nmeeting with any averted looks or restrained caresses. I have marked the\nline of conduct, a line I know exactly to your taste, and which I will\ninviolably keep; but do not you shew the least inclination to make\nboundaries. Seeming distrust where you know you may confide is a cruel\nsin against sensibility. \"Delicacy, you know, it was, which won me to\nyou at once--take care you do not loosen the dearest, most sacred tie\nthat unites us.\" Clarinda, I would not have stung _your_ soul, I would\nnot have bruised _your_ spirit, as that harsh, crucifying _\"Take Care\"_\ndid mine--no, not to have gained Heaven! Let me again appeal to your\ndear self, if Sylvander, even when he seemingly half-transgressed the\nlaws of decorum, if he did not shew more chastened trembling, faltering\ndelicacy than the many of the world do in keeping these laws?\n\nO Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my peace! I love to\nmadness and I feel to torture! Clarinda, how can I forgive myself that I\nhave ever touched a single chord in your bosom with pain! Would I do it\nwillingly? Would any consideration, any gratification make me do so? Oh,\ndid you love like me, you would not, you could not, deny or put off a\nmeeting with the man who adores you--who would die a thousand deaths\nbefore he would injure you; and who must soon bid you a long farewell!\n\nI had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr. Ainslie, to-morrow evening\nat his strong request to see you, as he has only time to stay with us\nabout ten minutes for an engagement. But I shall hear from you--this\nafternoon, for mercy's sake! for till I hear from you I am wretched. O\nClarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated with\nmy dearest threads of life!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XIX",
    "body": "[_Sat_., 26 _Jan_.]\n\nI was on the way, _my Love_, to meet you (I never do things by halves),\nwhen I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes out of town to-morrow morning, to\nsee a brother of his who is newly arrived from France. I am determined\nthat he and I shall call on you together; so, look you, lest I should\nnever see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night; Mary and you may put\noff tea till about seven; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, \"an the\nbeast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale,\" expect the humblest of\nyour humble servants, and his dearest friend. We propose staying only\nhalf-an-hour, \"for ought we ken.\" I could suffer the lash of misery\neleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like\nyesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment: all else is of the stuff\nof stocks and stones.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XX",
    "body": "_Sunday Noon, Jan_. 27_th_.\n\nI have almost given up the excise idea. I have been just now to wait on\na great person, Miss----'s friend, ----. Why will great people not only\ndeafen us with the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with their\nfastidious pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorially wise? I\nhave been questioned like a child about my matters, and blamed and\nschooled for my inscription on Stirling window. Come Clarinda-Come!\ncurse me Jacob, and come defy me Israel!\n\n_Sunday Night_.\n\nI have been with Miss Nimmo; she is indeed a good soul, as my Clarinda\nfinely says. She has reconciled me in a good measure to the world with\nher friendly prattle.\n\nSchetki has sent me the song set to a fine air of his composing. I have\ncalled the song \"Clarinda.\" I have carried it about in my pocket and\nhummed it over all day.\n\n_Monday Morning_.\n\nIf my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning looks in on you\nand finds you in the arms of Peace, except where it is charmingly\ninterrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so much serenity of soul,\nso much positive pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the world when\nI warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation of a consciousness of\nAlmighty friendship, that I am sure I shall soon be an honest\nenthusiast.\n\n  How are Thy Servants blest, O Lord,\n  How sure is their defence!\n\nI am, my dear madam, yours, SYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXI",
    "body": "_Tuesday Morning_, 29_th January_.\n\nI cannot go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a\nline, by way of a sin-offering; but, believe me, 'twas the sin of\nignorance. Could you think that I _intended_ to hurt you by any thing I\nsaid yesternight? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness,\nyour delicacy, your sensibility. O why should such glorious\nqualifications be the fruitful source of woe! You have \"murdered sleep\"\nto me last night. I went to bed, impressed with an idea that you were\nunhappy; and every start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in\nsuch scenes of romantic misery, that I would almost be persuaded you\nwere not well this morning.\n\n  If I unweeting have offended,\n  Impute it not.\n  But while we live\n  But one short hour perhaps, between us two,\n  Let there be peace.\n\nIf Mary is not gone by this reaches you, give her my best compliments.\nShe is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest love.\n\nI send you a poem to read, till I call on you this night, which will be\nabout nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell, some fairy charm,\nthat would protect from injury, or restore to rest that bosom-chord,\n\"tremblingly alive all o'er,\" on which hangs your peace of mind. I\nthought, vainly, I fear, thought that the devotion of love--love strong\nas even you can feel--love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the\npurity of virtue, and all the pride of honour; I thought such a love\nwould make you happy--shall I be mistaken? I can no more for hurry.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXII",
    "body": "_Sunday Morning_, 3_rd February_.\n\nI have just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda; according to my\nassociation of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next\ndevote myself to you. Yesternight I was happy--happiness \"that the world\ncannot give.\" I kindle at the recollection; but it is a flame where\ninnocence looks smiling on, and honour stands by, a sacred guard. Your\nheart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours to\nbestow; your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country; and\nhe loves not as I do, who would make you miserable.\n\nYou are an angel, Clarinda; you are surely no mortal that \"the earth\nowns.\" To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me far more\nexquisite bliss than the dearest favours that the fairest of the sex,\nyourself excepted, can bestow.\n\n_Sunday Evening_.\n\nYou are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is the\ncondition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling\nunder the idea of dreaded vengeance! and what a placid calm, what a\ncharming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the kind feelings of\nfriendship and the fond throes of love! Out upon the tempest of anger,\nthe acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the sullen frost of louring\nresentment, or the corroding poison of withered envy! They eat up the\nimmortal part of man! If they spent their fury only on the unfortunate\nobjects of them, it would be something in their favour; but these\nmiserable passions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master.\n\nThou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love! do thou give me\nthe social heart that kindly tastes of every man's cup! Is it a draught\nof joy?--warm and open my heart to share it with cordial unenvying\nrejoicing! Is it the bitter potion of sorrow?--melt my heart with\nsincerely sympathetic woe! Above all, do thou give me the manly mind\nthat resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, those sentiments which\nI would wish to be thought to possess! The friend of my soul--there may\nI never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active kindness!\nClarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there may the most sacred\ninviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, ever watch and\nanimate my every thought and imagination!\n\nDid you ever meet with the following lines spoken of Religion, your\ndarling topic?--\n\n    _'Tis this_, my friend, that streaks our morning bright;\n    _'Tis this_ that gilds the horrors of our night;\n    When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few,\n    When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;\n    'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,\n    Disarms affliction, or repels its dart:\n    Within the breast bids purest rapture rise,\n    Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies.[67]\n\nI met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted with\nthem that I have them by me, copied at school.\n\nGood night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 67: From Hervey's _Meditations_.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXIII",
    "body": "_Thursday Night, Feb_. 7, 1788.\n\nIt is perhaps rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his letter; it\nis apt to lay one under a little restraint in their future letters, and\nrestraint is the death of a friendly epistle. But there is one passage\nin your last charming letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded nor\noften came up to. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some future\npoetic production, and get immortal fame by it. 'Tis when you bid the\nScenes of Nature remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda? I\nwould detest myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, infamous\nblockhead! I have loved women of ordinary merit whom I could have loved\nfor ever. You are the first, the only unexceptionable individual of the\nbeauteous sex that I ever met with: and never woman more entirely\npossessed my soul. I know myself, and how far I can depend on passions,\nwell. It has been my peculiar study.\n\nI thank you for going to Myers.[68] Urge him, for necessity calls, to\nhave it done by the middle of next week, Wednesday at latest. I want it\nfor a breast-pin, to wear next my heart. I propose to keep sacred set\ntimes, to wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on you. Then, and\nonly then, your lovely image shall be produced to the day, with a\nreverence akin to devotion....\n\nTo-morrow night shall not be the last. Good-night! I am perfectly\nstupid, as I supped late yesternight.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 68: Miniature painter.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXIV",
    "body": "_Wednesday, 13th February_.\n\nMy ever dearest Clarinda,--I make a numerous dinner party wait me, while\nI read yours and write this. Do not require that I should cease to love\nyou, to adore you in my soul--'tis to me impossible--your peace and\nhappiness are to me dearer than my soul: name the terms on which you\nwish to see me, to correspond with me, and you have them--I must love,\npine, mourn, and adore in secret--this you must not deny me; you will\never be to me\n\n   Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,\n   Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart!\n\nI have not patience to read the puritanic scrawl. Damn'd sophistry! Ye\nheavens! thou God of nature! thou Redeemer of mankind! ye look down with\napproving eyes on a passion inspired by the purest flame, and guarded by\ntruth, delicacy, and honour; but the half-inch soul of an unfeeling,\ncold-blooded, pitiful presbyterian bigot,[69] cannot forgive anything\nabove his dungeon bosom and foggy head.\n\nFarewell; I'll be with you to-morrow evening--and be at rest in your\nmind--I will be yours in the way you think most to your happiness! I\ndare not proceed--I love, and will love you, and will with joyous\nconfidence approach the throne of the Almighty Judge of men, with your\ndear idea, and will despise the scum of sentiment, and the mist of\nsophistry. SYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 69: Rev. Mr. Kemp, Clarinda's spiritual adviser.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXV",
    "body": "_Wednesday Midnight [Feb. 13]._\n\nMADAM,-After a wretched day I am preparing for a sleepless night. I am\ngoing to address myself to the Almighty Witness of my actions, some\ntime, perhaps very soon, my Almighty Judge. I am not going to be the\nadvocate of passion: be Thou my inspirer and testimony, O God, as I\nplead the cause of truth!\n\nI have read over your friend's[70] haughty dictatorial letter: you are\nanswerable only to your God in such a matter. Who gave any\nfellow-creature of yours (one incapable of being your judge because not\nyour peer) a right to catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and\ninsult--wantonly and inhumanly to insult you thus? I do not even _wish_\nto deceive you, Madam. The Searcher of hearts is my witness how dear you\nare to me; but though it were possible you could be still dearer to me,\nI would not even kiss your hand at the expense of your conscience. Away\nwith declamation! let us appeal to the bar of commonsense. It is not\nmouthing everything sacred; it is not vague ranting assertions; it is\nnot assuming, haughtily and insultingly, the dictatorial language of a\nRoman pontiff, that must dissolve a union like ours. Tell me, Madam--Are\nyou under the least shadow of an obligation to bestow your love,\ntenderness, caresses, affections, heart and soul, on Mr. M'Lehose, the\nman who has repeatedly, habitually, and barbarously broken through every\ntie of duty, nature, and gratitude to you? The laws of your country,\nindeed, for the most useful reasons of policy and sound government, have\nmade your person inviolate; but, are your heart and affections bound to\none who gives not the least return of either to you? You cannot do it:\nit is not in the nature of things: the common feelings of humanity\nforbid it. Have you then a heart and affections which are no man's\nright? You have. It would be absurd to suppose the contrary. Tell me\nthen, in the name of common-sense, can it be wrong, is such a\nsupposition compatible with the plainest ideas of right and wrong, that\nit is improper to bestow the heart and these affections on\nanother--while that bestowing is not in the smallest degree hurtful to\nyour duty to God, to your children, to yourself, or to society at large?\n\nThis is the great test; the consequences: let us see them. In a widowed,\nforlorn, lonely condition, with a bosom glowing with love and\ntenderness, yet so delicately situated that you cannot indulge these\nnobler feelings.... [_cetera desunt_.]\n\n[Footnote 70: Rev. Mr. Kemp.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXVI",
    "body": "_Thurs., 14 Feb_.\n\n\"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan!\" I have suffered,\nClarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal; I\ndreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have robbed you of a friend,[71]\nGod forgive me!\n\nBut, Clarinda, be comforted: let me raise the tone of our feelings a\nlittle higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves us, who spurns us\nwithout a just cause, though once our bosom friend--up with a little\nhonest pride--let them go! How shall I comfort you, who am the cause of\nthe injury? Can I wish that I had never seen you, that we had never met?\nNo! I never will. But have I thrown you friendless? There is almost\ndistraction in that thought.\n\nFather of mercies! against Thee often have I sinned: through Thy grace I\nwill endeavour to do so no more! She who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me\nthan myself, pour Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, and hedge\nher about with Thy peculiar care, all her future days and nights.\nStrengthen her tender noble mind, firmly to suffer, and magnanimously to\nbear! Make me worthy of that friendship she honours me with. May my\nattachment to her be pure as devotion, and lasting as immortal life! O\nAlmighty Goodness, hear me! Be to her at all times, particularly in the\nhour of distress or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide and Guard.\n\n   How are Thy servants blest, O Lord,\n     How sure is their defence!\n   Eternal Wisdom is their guide,\n     Their help, Omnipotence!\n\nForgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you! Tonight I shall be\nwith you; as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 71: Her minister.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXVII",
    "body": "_Thursday, 14th Feb., Two o'clock_.\n\nI just now received your first letter of yesterday, by the careless\nnegligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown very serious\nwith us; then seriously hear me, and hear me, Heaven--I met you, my dear\nNancy, by far the first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, I\nloved you at first sight; the longer I am acquainted with you the more\ninnate amiableness and worth I discover in you. You have suffered a\nloss, I confess, for my sake: but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest\nfriendship; if every endeavour to be worthy of your friendship; if a\nlove, strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of\nreligion--if all these can make anything like a compensation for the\nevil I have occasioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in\nthe least add to your enjoyment--so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in\nhis hour of need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda!\n\nI esteem you, I love you as a friend; I admire you, I love you as a\nwoman, beyond any one in all the circle of creation; I know I shall\ncontinue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you, nay, to pray for\nmyself for your sake.\n\nExpect me at eight. And believe me to be ever, my dearest Madam, yours\nmost entirely, SYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXVIII",
    "body": "_February 15th, 1788_.\n\nWhen matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a desperate face--\n\n   On reason build resolve,\n   That column of true majesty in man.\n\nOr, as the same author finely says in another place--\n\n   Let thy soul spring up,\n   And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee.\n\nI am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look\nforward; in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out of the\npossibility of seeing you: till then I shall write you often, but visit\nyou seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness are dearer to me\nthan any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love! the present\nmoment is the worst; the lenient hand of Time is daily and hourly either\nlightening the burden, or making us insensible to the weight. None of\nthese friends, I mean Mr.---- and the other gentleman, can hurt your\nworldly support; and for their friendship, in a little time you will\nlearn to be easy, and, by and by, to be happy without it. A decent means\nof livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peaceful conscience, and\none firm, trusty friend--can anybody that has these be said to be\nunhappy? These are yours.\n\nTo-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight; probably for the last\ntime till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of these\ntwo unlucky friends question you respecting me, whether I am the man, I\ndo not think they are entitled to any information. As to their jealousy\nand spying, I despise them.--Adieu, my dearest Madam!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXIX",
    "body": "GLASGOW, _Monday Evening, 9 o'clock, 18th Feb. 1788._\n\nThe attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to the\nattraction of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the\nnearer objects are to one another, the stronger is the attractive force;\nin my system, every mile-stone that marked my progress from Clarinda,\nawakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you feel, my love?\nIs your heart ill at ease? I fear it.--God forbid that these persecutors\nshould harass that peace, which is more precious to me than my own. Be\nassured I shall ever think of you, muse on you, and, in my moments of\ndevotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in all my\nthoughts--\"be that hour darkness! let the shadows of death cover it! let\nit not be numbered in the hours of the day!\"\n\n   When I forget the darling theme,\n   Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more!\n   And, dead to joy, forget, my heart, to beat!\n\nI have just met with my old friend, the ship captain;[72] guess my\npleasure--to meet you could alone have given me more. My brother\nWilliam, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me; and\nhere are we three spending the evening.\n\nI arrived here too late to write by post; but I'll wrap half a dozen\nsheets of blank paper together, and send it by the fly, under the name\nof a parcel. You shall hear from me next post town. I would write you a\nlong letter, but for the present circumstance of my friend.\n\nAdieu, my Clarinda! I am just going to propose your health by way of\ngrace-drink. SYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 72: Richard Brown, whom he first knew at Irvine.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXX",
    "body": "CUMNOCK, _2nd March_ 1788.\n\nI hope, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda[73] will not think my\nsilence, for now a long week, has been in any decree owing to my\nforgetfulness. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I\nwrote you; and am here, returning from Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the\npost office of the place, with just so long time as my horse eats his\ncorn, to write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation\nalmost equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch's mandate,\nwhen he forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had the\nvenerable prophet been as throng as I, he had not broken the decree, at\nleast not thrice a day.\n\nI am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy intelligent\nfarmer, my father's friend and my own, has been with me on the spot: he\nthinks the bargain practicable. I am myself, on a more serious review of\nthe lands, much better pleased with them. I won't mention this in\nwriting to any body but you and Ainslie. Don't accuse me of being\nfickle: I have the two plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt the\none most likely to procure me independence. I shall be in Edinburgh next\nweek. I long to see you: your image is omnipresent to me; nay, I am\nconvinced I would soon idolatrise it most seriously; so much do absence\nand memory improve the medium through which one sees the much-loved\nobject. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I expect to meet you--at\nthe Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home tonight, to find a letter from\nyou at the post office in Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear\nhand since I left Edinburgh--a letter indeed which much affected me.\nTell me, first of womankind! will my warmest attachment, my sincerest\nfriendship, my correspondence, will they be any compensation for the\nsacrifices you make for my sake! If they will, they are yours. If I\nsettle on the farm I propose, I am just a day and a half's ride from\nEdinburgh. We will meet--don't you say, \"perhaps too often!\"\n\nFarewell, my fair, my charming Poetess! May all good things ever attend\nyou! I am ever, my dearest Madam, yours, SYLVANDER.\n\n   [Footnote 73: The letter about the 23rd of February seems to be\n   wanting.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXXI",
    "body": "MAUCHLINE, 6 _Mar_.\n\nI own myself guilty, Clarinda; I should have written you last week; but\nwhen you recollect, my dearest Madam, that yours of this night's post is\nonly the third I have got from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth\nI have sent to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for\nunkindness. I have always some kind of idea, not to sit down to write a\nletter except I have time and possession of my faculties, so as to do\nsome justice to my letter; which at present is rarely my situation. For\ninstance, yesterday I dined at a friend's at some distance; the savage\nhospitality of this country spent me the most part of the night over the\nnauseous potion in the bowl: this day--sick--headache--low\nspirits--miserable--fasting, except for a draught of water or small\nbeer: now eight o'clock at night--only able to crawl ten minutes walk\ninto Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasurable hope of hearing from\nthe mistress of my soul.\n\nBut, truce with all this! When I sit down to write to you, all is\nharmony and peace. A hundred times a day do I figure you, before your\ntaper, your book, or work laid aside, as I get within the room. How\nhappy have I been! and how little of that scantling portion of time,\ncalled the life of man, is sacred to happiness! much less transport!\n\nI could moralise to-night like a death's head.\n\n   O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all!\n   A drop of honey in a draught of gall.\n\nNothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels of\nlife, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. \"None\nsaith, where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night; who\nteacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more\nunderstanding than the fowls of the air.\"\n\nGive me, my Maker, to remember thee! Give me to act up to the dignity of\nmy nature! Give me to feel \"another's woe;\" and continue with me that\ndear-loved friend that feels with mine!\n\nThe dignified and dignifying consciousness of an honest man, and the\nwell-grounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most substantial\nfoundations of happiness.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXXII",
    "body": "MOSSGIEL, _7th March_ 1788.\n\nClarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for unkindness, a sin\nso unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the whole Decalogue,\nfifth, sixth, seventh and ninth articles excepted, that I believe I\nshall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before I see you. You have\noften allowed me the head to judge, and the heart to feel, the influence\nof female excellence.\n\nWas it not blasphemy, then, against your own charms, and against my\nfeelings, to suppose that a short fortnight could abate my passion? You,\nmy love, may have your cares and anxieties to disturb you, but they are\nthe usual recurrences of life; your future views are fixed, and your\nmind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, make a\nlittle allowance for a man, after long absence, paying a short visit to\na country full of friends, relations, and early intimates? Cannot you\nguess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious forebodings,\nhopes and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of keen sensibility,\nwhen no less is on the tapis than his aim, his employment, his very\nexistence, through future life!\n\nNow that, not my apology, but my defence is made, I feel my soul respire\nmore easily. I know you will go along with me in my justification--would\nto Heaven you could in my adoption too! I mean an adoption beneath the\nstars--an adoption where I might revel in the immediate beams of\n\n   Her, the bright sun of all her sex.\n\nI would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss Nimmo's\ncoldness. 'Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no means\ndeserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness--we\nought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character; and\nwhen, on full examination, we know where we stand, and how much ground\nwe occupy, let us contend for it as property; and those who seem to\ndoubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us either pity their\nprejudices, or despise their judgment. I know, my dear, you will say\nthis is self-conceit; but I call it self-knowledge. The one is\ntheoverweening opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be what he\nwishes himself to be thought; the other is the honest justice that a man\nof sense, who has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself.\nWithout this standard, this column in our own mind, we are perpetually\nat the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the\nvery weakness and wickedness of our fellow-creatures.\n\nI urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine, which, I\nassure you, I sometimes need; and because I know that this causes you\noften much disquiet. To return to Miss Nimmo: she is most certainly a\nworthy soul, and equalled by very, very few, in goodness of heart. But\ncan she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? Not even prejudice\nwill dare to say so. For penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far\nbeyond her: to wit, Miss Nimmo dare make no pretence; to Clarinda's wit,\nscarcely any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it would be\nridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct in life, Miss Nimmo was\nnever called out, either much to do or to suffer; Clarinda has been\nboth; and has performed her part, where Miss Nimmo would have sunk at\nthe bare idea.\n\nAway, then, with these disquietudes! Let us pray with the honest weaver\nof Kilbarchan--\"Lord, send us a gude conceit o' oursel!\" Or, in the\nwords of the auld sang,\n\n  Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again,\n  And I'll never mind any such foes.\n\nThere is an error in the commerce of intimacy[74] ...\n\nway of exchange, have not an equivalent to give us; and, what is still\nworse, have no idea of the value of our goods. Happy is our lot indeed,\nwhen we meet with an honest merchant, who is qualified to deal with us\non our own terms; but that is a rarity. With almost everybody we must\npocket our pearls, less or more, and learn in the old Scotch phrase--\"To\ngie sic like as we get.\" For this reason one should try to erect a kind\nof bank or store-house in one's own mind; or, as the Psalmist says, \"We\nshould commune with our own hearts, and be still.\" This is exactly\n\n   [Footnote 74: The MS. is so worn as to be indecipherable.]\n\n   [MS. dilapidated.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXXIII",
    "body": "EDINBURGH, 18_th March_ 1788.\n\nI am just hurrying away to wait on the great man, Clarinda; but I have\nmore respect on my own peace and happiness than to set out without\nwaiting on you; for my imagination, like a child's favourite bird, will\nfondly flutter along with this scrawl till it perch on your bosom I\nthank you for all the happiness of yesterday--the walk delightful, the\nevening rapture. Do not be uneasy today, Clarinda. I am in rather better\nspirits today, though I had but an indifferent night. Care, anxiety, sat\non my spirits. All the cheerfulness of this morning is the fruit of some\nserious, important ideas that lie, in their realities, beyond the dark\nand narrow house. The Father of mercies be with you, Clarinda. Every\ngood thing attend you!\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXXIV",
    "body": "_Friday_ 9 [_p.m_., 21_st March_ 1788].\n\nI am just now come in, and have read your letters. The first thing I did\nwas to thank the Divine Disposer of events that he has had such\nhappiness in store for me as the connexion I have with you. Life, my\nClarinda, is a weary, barren path; and woe be to him or her that\nventures on it alone! For me, I have my dearest partner of my soul.\nClarinda and I will make out our pilgrimage together. Wherever I am, I\nshall constantly let her know how I go on, what I observe in the world\naround me, and what adventures I meet with. Would it please you, my\nlove, to get every week, or every fortnight at least, a packet of two or\nthree sheets of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes and old songs? Will you\nopen with satisfaction and delight a letter from a man who loves you,\nwho has loved you, and who will love you to death, through death, and\nfor ever? O Clarinda! what do I owe to heaven for blessing me with such\na piece of exalted excellence as you! I call over your idea, as a miser\ncounts over his treasure. Tell me, were you studious to please me last\nnight? I am sure you did it to transport.\n\nHow rich am I who have such a treasure as you! You know me; you know how\nto make me happy, and you do it most effectually. God bless you with\n\"long life, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend!\" Tomorrow night,\naccording to your own direction, I shall watch the window--'tis the star\nthat guides me to Paradise. The great relish to all is that honour, that\ninnocence, that Religion are the witnesses and guarantees of our\naffection, Adieu, Clarinda! I am going to remember you in my prayers.\n\nSYLVANDER.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nGENERAL CORRESPONDENCE.\n\n\nLETTERS.\n\n(_General Correspondence Resumed_.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLXXXIV.--To MR. GAVIN HAMILTON.\n\n[_April_ 1788] MOSSGIEL, _Friday Morning_.\n\nThe language of refusal is to me the most difficult language on earth,\nand you are the man in the world, excepting one of Right Hon.\ndesignation, to whom it gives me the greatest pain to hold such\nlanguage. My brother has already got money,[75] and shall want nothing\nin my power to enable him to fulfil his engagement with you; but to be\nsecurity on so large a scale, even for a brother, is what I dare not do,\nexcept I were in such circumstances of life as that the worst that might\nhappen could not greatly injure me.\n\nI never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my life, as I know\nthe unhappy consequences:--I shall incur the displeasure of a gentleman\nfor whom I have the highest respect and to whom I am deeply\nobliged.--I am etc.\n\nROBERT BURNS.\n\n   [Footnote 75: Altogether £180. Gilbert is meant, and the business\n   referred to was renewal of lease of Mossgiel, the poet to be\n   cautioner.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLXXXV.--To MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S., EDINBURGH.\n\nMAUCHLINE, 7_th April_ 1788.\n\nI have not delayed so long to write you, my much respected friend,\nbecause I thought no further of my promise. I have long since given up\nthat formal kind of correspondence where one sits down irksomely to\nwrite a letter, because he is in duty bound to do so.\n\nI have been roving over the country, as the farm[76] I have taken is\nforty miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters; but\nmost of all, I am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own\nmind. As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy\nmaster of ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn. Add to\nthis, my late scenes of idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind\nto an alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most\nserious, and hourly study. I have dropped all conversation and all\nreading (prose reading) but what tends in some way or other to my\nserious aim. Except one worthy young fellow[77] I have not a single\ncorrespondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me an offer of\nthat kind. The world of wits, the _gens comme-il-faut_, which I lately\nleft, and in which I never again will intimately mix--from that port,\nSir, I expect your gazette, what the _beaux esprits_ are saying, what\nthey are doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence from\nmy sequestered life is all you have to expect from me. I have scarcely\nmade a single distich since I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots air\nthat has any facetious idea in its name, I have a peculiar pleasure in\nfollowing out that idea for a verse or two.\n\nI trust this will find you in better health than I did the last time I\ncalled for you. A few lines from you, directed to me, at Mauchline, were\nit but to let me know how you are, will settle my mind a good deal. Now,\nnever shun the idea of writing me because, perhaps, you may be out of\nhumour or spirits. I could give you a hundred good consequences\nattending a dull letter; one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine\nsome other time--it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much\nrespected Sir, your obliged friend and humble servant, R. B.\n\n   [Footnote 76: Ellisland, near Dumfries.]\n\n   [Footnote 77: Robert Ainslie, W.S.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nLXXXVI.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nMAUCHLINE, 28_th April_ 1788.\n\nMADAM,--Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure\nyou they make my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though I was\nreally not guilty. As I commence farming at Whitsunday, you will easily\nguess I must be pretty busy; but that is not all. As I got the offer of\nthe Excise business without solicitation, and as it costs me only six\nmonths' attendance for instructions, to entitle me to a commission\n--which commission lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple\npetition, can be resumed--I thought five-and-thirty pounds a-year was no\nbad _dernier ressort_ for a poor poet, if Fortune in her jade tricks\nshould kick him down from the little eminence to which she has lately\nhelped him up.\n\nFor this reason, I am at present attending these instructions, to have\nthem completed before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared with the\nsincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came to my brother's on\nSaturday night, to set out on Sunday; but for some nights preceding I\nhad slept in an apartment, where the force of the winds and rains was\nonly mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the\nwindows, walls, etc. In consequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of\nTuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a\nviolent cold.\n\nYou see, Madam, the truth of the French maxim, _le vrai n'est pas\ntoujours le vrai-semblable;_ your last was so full of expostulation, and\nwas something so like the language of an offended friend, that I began\nto tremble for a correspondence, which I had with grateful pleasure set\ndown as one of the greatest enjoyments of my future life.\n\nYour books have delighted me; Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso were all equally\nstrangers to me; but of this more at large in my next. R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nLXXXVII.--To MR. JAMES SMITH, AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW.\n\nMAUCHLINE, _April_ 28_th_, 1788.\n\nBeware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! Look on this as the opening of a\ncorrespondence, like the opening of a twenty-four gun battery!\n\nThere is no understanding a man properly, without knowing something of\nhis previous ideas; that is to say, if the man has any ideas; for I know\nmany who, in the animal-muster, pass for men, that are the scanty\nmasters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the greatest\npart of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of ideas,\n1.25--1.5--1.75 (or some such fractional matter); so to let you a little\ninto the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain\nclean-limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to\nwhom I have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my corpus.\n\n  Bode a robe and wear it,\n  Bode a pock and bear it,\n\nsays the wise old Scots adage! I hate to presage ill-luck; and as my\ngirl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of women usually\nare to their partners of our sex, in similar circumstances, I reckon on\ntwelve times a brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth\nwedding-day: these twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossipings,\ntwenty-four christenings (I mean one equal to two), and I hope, by the\nblessing of the God of my fathers, to make them twenty-four dutiful\nchildren to their parents, twenty-four useful members of society, and\ntwenty-four approved servants of their God....\n\n\"Light's heartsome,\" quo' the wife when she was stealing sheep. You see\nwhat a lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, when you are idle\nenough to explore the combinations and relations of my ideas. 'Tis now\nas plain as a pike-staff, why a twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I\ncould readily employ.\n\nNow for business. I intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl,\nan article of which I dare say you have variety: 'tis my first present\nto her since I have irrevocably called her mine, and I have a kind of\nwhimsical wish to get her the first said present from an old and\nmuch-valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose\nfriendship I count myself possessed of as a life-rent lease.\n\nLook on this letter as a \"beginning of sorrows;\" I will write you till\nyour eyes ache reading nonsense.\n\nMrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) begs her best compliments\nto you. R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nLXXXVIII--To PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART.\n\nMAUCHLINE, 3_rd May_ 1788.\n\nSIR,--I enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. If the fervent\nwishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great unknown\nBeing who frames the chain of causes and events, prosperity and\nhappiness will attend your visit to the Continent, and return you safe\nto your native shore.\n\nWherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as my privilege to acquaint\nyou with my progress in my trade of rhymes; as I am sure I could say it\nwith truth, that, next to my little fame, and the having it in my power\nto make life more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me,\nI shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, your friendly good\noffices, as the most valued consequence of my late success in life.\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nLXXXIX.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nMAUCHLINE, 4_th May_ 1788.\n\nMADAM,--Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know whether the\ncritics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best\nof Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing entirely new to me, and has\nfilled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation; but, alas! when I\nread the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of\na Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to\nstart for the plate. I own I am disappointed in the AEneid. Faultless\ncorrectness may please, and does highly please, the lettered critic; but\nto that awful character T have not the most distant pretensions. I do\nnot know whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any\nkind, when I say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile\ncopier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many\npassages where Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means improved,\nHomer. Nor can I think there is anything of this owing to the\ntranslators; for, from everything I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in\ngenius and fluency of language, Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso\nenough to form an opinion: in some future letter you shall have my ideas\nof him; though I am conscious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and\nimperfect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my want of learning\nmost. R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nXC.--To MR. SAMUEL BROWN, KIRKOSWALD.\n\nMOSSGIEL, 4_th May_ 1788.\n\nDEAR UNCLE,--This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal yoke-fellow\nin your good old way. I am impatient to know if the Ailsa[78] fowling be\ncommenced for this season yet, as I want three or four stones of\nfeathers, and I hope you will bespeak them for me. It would be a vain\nattempt for me to enumerate the various transactions I have been engaged\nin since I saw you last; but this know--I engaged in a smuggling trade,\nand no poor man ever experienced better returns, two for one: but as\nfreight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am thinking of taking\nout a license and beginning in fair trade. I have taken a farm, on the\nborders of the Nith, and in imitation of the old patriarchs, get\nmen-servants and maid-servants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and\ndaughters.--Your obedient nephew,\n\nROBERT BURNS.\n\n   [Footnote 78: A well-known rock in the Firth of Clyde, frequented by\n   innumerable sea-fowl.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nXCI.--To MR. JAMES JOHNSON, ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH.\n\nMAUCHLINE, 25_th May_ 1788.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--I am really uneasy about that money which Mr. Creech owes\nme per note in your hand, and I want it much at present, as I am\nengaging in business pretty deeply both for myself and my brother. A\nhundred guineas can be but a trifling affair to him, and'tis a matter of\nmost serious importance to me.[79] To-morrow I begin my operations as a\nfarmer, and so God speed the plough!\n\nI am so enamoured of a certain girl.... To be serious, I found I had a\nlong and much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my hands;\nand though pride and seeming justice were murderous king's advocates on\nthe one side, yet humanity, generosity, and forgiveness were such\npowerful, such irresistible counsel on the other, that a jury of all\nendearments and new attachments brought in a unanimous verdict of _not\nguilty_. And the panel, be it known unto all whom it concerns, is\ninstalled and instated into all the rights, privileges, etc., that\nbelong to the name, title, and designation of wife.\n\n   [Footnote 79: Creech paid the amount five days after the date of this\n   letter.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nXCII.--To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.\n\nMAUCHLINE, _May_ 26_th_, 1788.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I am two kind letters in your debt; but I have been\nfrom home, and horridly busy, buying and preparing for my farming\nbusiness, over and above the plague of my Excise instructions, which\nthis week will finish.\n\nAs I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years' correspondence\nbetween us, 'tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles! a dull\nletter may be a very kind one. I have the pleasure to tell you that I\nhave been extremely fortunate in all my buyings and bargainings\nhitherto, Mrs. Burns not excepted; which title I now avow to the world.\nI am truly pleased with this last affair. It has indeed added to my\nanxieties for futurity, but it has given a stability to my mind and\nresolutions unknown before; and the poor girl has the most sacred\nenthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my\nevery idea of her deportment. I am interrupted. Farewell! my dear\nSir. R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nXCIII.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\n27_th_ _May _1788.\n\nMADAM,--I have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose to account for\nthat kind partiality of yours, which has followed me, in my return to\nthe shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in\nthe fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that \"here I had\nno continuing city;\" and, but for the consolation of a few solid\nguineas, could almost lament the time that a momentary acquaintance with\nwealth and splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn\ncompanions of my road through life--insignificance and poverty.\n\nThere are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the\ngood things of this life that give me more vexation (I mean in what I\nsee around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling\nfamily affairs, compared with the very same things on the contracted\nscale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or\ntwo at a good woman's fireside, where the planks that composed the floor\nwere decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with\nsilver and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a\nrevolution among those creatures who, though in appearance partakers,\nand equally noble partakers, of the same nature with Madame, are from\ntime to time--their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength,\nwisdom, experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of their very\nthoughts--sold for months and years, not only to the necessities, the\nconveniences, but the caprices of the important few. We talked of the\ninsignificant creatures; nay, notwithstanding their general stupidity\nand rascality, did some of the poor devils the honour to commend them.\nBut light be the turf upon his breast who taught \"Reverence thyself!\" We\nlooked down on the unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives, and\nclouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill,\nwhose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of his ramble, or\ntosses in the air in the wantonness of his pride.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nXCIV.--TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON.\n\nELLISLAND, 13_th June_ 1788.\n\n  Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,\n  My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee;\n  Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain,\n  And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd chain.\n    GOLDSMITH.\n\nThis is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my farm.\nA solitary inmate of an old smoky spence; far from every object I love,\nor by whom I am beloved; nor any acquaintance older than yesterday,\nexcept Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on; while uncouth cares and\nnovel plans hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience.\nThere is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour of care;\nconsequently the dreary objects seem larger than the life. Extreme\nsensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of\nmisfortunes and disappointments, at that period of my existence when the\nsoul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I\nbelieve, the principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind.\n\n  The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?\n  Or what need he regard his _single_ woes?\n\nYour surmise, Madam, is just: I am indeed a husband.\n\nI found a once much-loved and still much-loved female, literally and\ntruly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements--but there is no\nsporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery.... The most\nplacid good-nature and sweetness of disposition; a warm heart,\ngratefully devoted with all its powers to love me; vigorous health and\nsprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more than\ncommon handsome figure--these, I think, in a woman may make a good wife\nthough she should never have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old\nand New Testaments, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny\npay wedding.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nXCV.-TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.\n\nELLISLAND, _June 14th_, 1788.\n\nThis is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have sojourned in\nthese regions; and during these three days you have occupied more of my\nthoughts than in three weeks preceding: in Ayrshire I have several\nvariations of friendship's compass, here it points invariably to the\npole. My farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I\nhate the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says\nwell--\"Why should a living man complain?\"\n\nI have lately been much mortified with contemplating an unlucky\nimperfection in the very framing and construction of my soul; namely, a\nblundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of\ncraft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to\nmy ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence of the\nunsuspicious simplicity of conscious truth and honour: I take it to be,\nin some way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor\napart, some modification of dulness. In two or three instances lately, I\nhave been most shamefully out.\n\nI have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms\namong the light horse--the piquet-guards of fancy; a kind of hussars and\nHighlanders of the brain; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these\ngiddy battalions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or\nof a siege but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am determined to\nbuy in among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the\nartillery corps of plodding contrivance.\n\nWhat books are you reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts,\nbesides the great studies of your profession? You said something about\nreligion in your last. I don't exactly remember what it was, as the\nletter is in Ayrshire; but I thought it not only prettily said, but\nnobly thought. You will make a noble fellow if once you were married. I\nmake no reservation of your being well-married; you have so much sense,\nand knowledge of human nature, that though you may not realise perhaps\nthe ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-married.\n\nWere it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation respecting\nprovision for a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the\nstep I have taken is vastly for my happiness.[80] As it is, I look to\nthe Excise scheme as a certainty of maintenance; a maintenance!--luxury\nto what either Mrs. Burns or I were born to. Adieu.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 80: This alludes to his marriage.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nXCVI.-TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.\n\nELLISLAND, _30th June_ 1788.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--I just now received your brief epistle; and, to take\nvengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of\nwriting-paper, and have begun at the top of the page, intending to\nscribble on to the very last corner.\n\nI am vexed at that affair of the ..., but dare not enlarge on the\nsubject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be\naltered on your late master and friend's death.[81] I am concerned for\nthe old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to your disadvantage in\nany respect--for an old man's dying, except he have been a very\nbenevolent character, or in some particular situation of life that the\nwelfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an event\nof the most trifling moment to the world. Man is naturally a kind,\nbenevolent animal, but he is dropped into such a needy situation here in\nthis vexatious world, and has such a hungry, growling, multiplying pack\nof necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready to\ndevour him for want of other food, that in fact he must lay aside his\ncares for others that he may look properly to himself. You have been\nimposed upon in paying Mr. Miers for the profile of a Mr. H. I did not\nmention it in my letter to you, nor did I ever give Mr. Miers any such\norder. I have no objection to lose the money, but I will not have any\nsuch profile in my possession.\n\nI desired the carrier to pay you, but as I mentioned only 15s. to him, I\nwill rather inclose you a guinea-note. I have it not, indeed, to spare\nhere, as I am only a sojourner in a strange land in this place; but in a\nday or two I return to Mauchline, and there I have the bank-notes\nthrough the house like salt permits.\n\nThere is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of one's\nprivate affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new\nneighbours, who has made himself absolutely contemptible in my eyes, by\nhis silly, garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own,\ntoo; but from this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell!\nYour poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend,\nforsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence; but'tis a squalid vagabond\nglorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters is much\nmore pardonable than imprudence respecting character, I have no\nobjection to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; but I\nappeal to your observation if you have not met, and often met, with the\nsame disingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and\ndisintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims of\nprofusion, as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every\npossible reverence for the much talked-of world beyond the grave, and I\nwish that which piety believes, and virtue deserves, may be all matter\nof fact. But in things belonging to, and terminating in this present\nscene of existence, man has serious and interesting business on hand.\nWhether a man shall shake hands with welcome in the distinguished\nelevation of respect, or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of\ninsignificance: whether he shall wanton under the tropic of plenty, at\nleast enjoy himself in the comfortable latitude of easy convenience, or\nstarve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty; whether he shall rise in\nthe manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a\ngalling load of regret and remorse--these are alternatives of the\nlast moment.\n\nYou see how I preach. You used occasionally to sermonise too; I wish you\nwould, in charity, favour me with a sheet full in your own way. I admire\nthe close of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift:--\"Adieu,\ndear Swift! with all thy faults I love thee entirely: make an effort to\nlove me with all mine!\" Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now\nsuch a prostituted business, that honest friendship, in her sincere way,\nmust have recourse to her primitive, simple--farewell!\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 81: Samuel Mitchelson, W.S., with whom young Ainslie served\n   his apprenticeship.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nXCVII--TO MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nMAUCHLINE, _July_ 10_th_, 1788.\n\nMY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,--Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found\nit, as well as another valued friend--my wife, waiting to welcome me to\nAyrshire: I met both with the sincerest pleasure.\n\nWhen I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of\nyours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of Great\nBritain in Parliament assembled, answering a speech from the best of\nkings! I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may, perhaps, be\nguilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not from your very\nodd reason, that I do not read your letters. All your epistles, for\nseveral months, have cost me nothing except a swelling throb of\ngratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration.\n\nWhen Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found herself \"as women wish to be who\nlove their lords,\" as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps\nfor a private marriage. Her parents got the hint; and not only forbade\nme her company and their house, but, on my rumoured West Indian voyage,\ngot a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security in my\nabout-to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On\nmy _éclatant_ return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my\ngirl. The usual consequences began to betray her; and, as I was at that\ntime laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned,\nout of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her till my return,\nwhen our marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery were in my\nhands, and who could trifle with such a deposit?\n\nTo jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger. My preservative\nagainst the first is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments\nof honour and her attachment to me; my antidote against the last is my\nlong and deep-rooted affection for her. I can easily _fancy_ a more\nagreeable companion for my journey of life; but, upon my honour, I have\nnever _seen_ the individual instance.\n\nIn household matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute, she\nis eminently mistress; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is\nregularly and constantly apprentice to my mother and sisters in their\ndairy, and other rural business.\n\nThe muses must not be offended when I tell them, the concerns of my wife\nand family will, in my mind, always take the _pas_; but I assure them\ntheir ladyships will ever come next in place.\n\nYou are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more friends;\nbut, from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the\nenjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my\nGod, would seldom have been of the number.\n\nCircumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for life\nwho could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite\nauthors, etc., without probably entailing on me at the same time\nexpensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all\nthe other blessed boarding-school acquirements, which (_pardonnez moi_,\n_Madame_) are sometimes to be found among females of the upper ranks,\nbut almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry.[82]\n\nI like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. Thoughts that are the\nspontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health,\nplace, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality,\nthat would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances, and studied\nparagraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in\nprogression by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I\ntalk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper\nof this kind is my pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post\nis on such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it;\nand double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a\nmonstrous tax in a close correspondence. R. B.\n\n   [Footnote 82: In Burns's private memoranda are these words:--\"I am\n   more and more pleased with the step I took respecting my Jean. A\n   wife's head is immaterial compared with her heart; and Virtue's (for\n   wisdom, what poet pretends to it?) 'ways are ways of pleasantness,\n   and all her paths are peace.'\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nXCVIII.--To MR. PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.\n\nMY DEAR HILL,--I shall say nothing to your mad present--you have so long\nand often been of important service to me, and I suppose you mean to go\non conferring obligations until I shall not be able to lift up my face\nbefore you. In the meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it\nhappened to be a cold day in which he made his will, ordered his\nservants great-coats for mourning, so, because I have been this week\nplagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine old\newe-milk cheese.[83]\n\nIndigestion is the devil: nay, 'tis the devil and all. It besets a man\nin every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of\nsuccessful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the noise and nonsense of\nself-important folly. When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by the\nhand, the feeling spoils my dinner; the proud man's wine so offends my\npalate that it chokes me in the gullet; and the _pulvilised_, feathered,\npert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril that my stomach turns.\n\nIf ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me prescribe\nfor you patience, and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no niggard\nof your good things among your friends, and some of them are in much\nneed of a slice. There, in my eye, is our friend Smellie; a man\npositively of the first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well\nas one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met with;\nwhen you see him, as, alas! he too is smarting at the pinch of\ndistressful circumstances, aggravated by the sneer of contumelious\ngreatness--a bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you add a\ntankard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of bright Oporto, you will\nsee his sorrows vanish like the morning mist before the summer sun.\n\nCandlish, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I have on\nearth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever any man called by the\nname of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would help to rid him of some\nof his superabundant modesty, you would do well to give it him.\n\nDavid,[84] with his _Courant_, comes, too, across my recollection, and I\nbeg you will help him largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable\nhim to digest those bedaubing paragraphs with which he is eternally\nlarding the lean characters of certain great men in a certain great\ntown. I grant you the periods are very well turned; so, a fresh egg is a\nvery good thing, but when thrown at a man in a pillory, it does not at\nall improve his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss of the egg.\n\nMy facetious friend Dunbar, I would wish also to be a partaker: not to\ndigest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his last\nnight's wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan corps.[85]\n\nAmong our common friends I must not forget one of the dearest of\nthem--Cunningham. The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world\nunworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know sticks in his\nstomach, and if you can help him to anything that will make him a little\neasier on that score, it will be very obliging.\n\nAs to honest John Sommerville, he is such a contented, happy man, that I\nknow not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may not have got the\nbetter of a parcel oif modest anecdotes which a certain poet gave him\none night at supper, the last time the said poet was in town.\n\nThough I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have nothing to do\nwith them professedly--the faculty are beyond my prescription. As to\ntheir clients, that is another thing; God knows they have much\nto digest!\n\nThe clergy I pass by; their profundity of erudition, and their\nliberality of sentiment, their total want of pride, and their\ndetestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place them\nfar, far above either my praise or censure.\n\nI was going to mention a man of worth, whom I have the honour to call\nfriend--the Laird of Craigdarroch; but I have spoken to the landlord of\nthe King's Arms Inn here, to have at the next county meeting a large\newe-milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the Dumfriesshire\nWhigs, to enable them to digest the Duke of Queensberry's late\npolitical conduct.\n\nI have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to Edinburgh,\nas perhaps you would not digest double postage.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 83: In return for some valuable books.]\n\n   [Footnote 84: Printer of the _Edinburgh Evening Courant_.]\n\n   [Footnote 85: A club of boon companions.]\n\n              *    *    *    *    *    *    *\n\nXCIX.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nMAUCHLINE, _August_ 2_nd_, 1788.\n\nHONOURED MADAM,--Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, to Ayrshire.\nI am, indeed, seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny;\nbut, vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at\nthe noble lord's apology for the missed napkin.\n\nI would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but I\nhave scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a\nfortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself,\nand, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Besides, I\nam now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house; as at present I\nam almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce \"where to\nlay my head.\"\n\nThere are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. \"The\nheart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not\ntherewith.\" The repository of these \"sorrows of the heart\" is a kind of\n_sanctum sanctorum_: and'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, at\nparticular, sacred times, who dares enter into them:--\n\n  Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords\n  That nature finest strung.\n\nYou will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of\nentering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I\nwrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale\nneighbourhood. They are almost the only favour the muses have conferred\non me in that country.[86]\n\nSince I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the production\nof yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cumnock. I intend\ninserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to\nwrite to the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise hopes depend, Mr.\nGraham of Fintray, one of the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen,\nnot only of this country, but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The\nfollowing are just the first crude thoughts \"unhousel'd, unanointed,\nunanneal'd:\"[87]--\n\nHere the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Anthony's\nwriting me. I never received it. Poor fellow I you vex me much by\ntelling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from\nthis date. I have just room for an old Roman FAREWELL.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 86: Lines written in Friar's Carse Hermitage.]\n\n   [Footnote 87: First Epistle to Robert Graham.]\n\n             *     *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nC.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, 16_th August_ 1788.\n\nI am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac\nepistle; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian:--\n\n  Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn?\n  Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?\n\nMy increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country--gloomy\nconjectures in the dark vista of futurity--consciousness of my own\ninability for the struggle of the world--my broadened mark to misfortune\nin a wife and children;--I could indulge these reflections, till my\nhumour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the\nvery thread of life.\n\nTo counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to you;\nas I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for\nmy wounded spirit.\n\nI was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to dinner, for the first time. My\nreception was quite to my mind: from the lady of the house quite\nflattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, _impromptu_. She\nrepeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suffrage as a\nprofessional man was expected: I for once went agonising over the belly\nof my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods, independence\nof spirit, and integrity of soul! In the course of conversation,\n_Johnsorfs Musical Museum_, a collection of Scottish songs with the\nmusic, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning\n\n  Raving winds around her blowing.\n\nThe air was much admired: the lady of the house asked me whose were the\nwords. \"Mine, Madam--they are indeed my very best verses;\" she took not\nthe smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says well, \"King's\ncaff is better than ither folks' corn.\" I was going to make a New\nTestament quotation about \"casting pearls,\" but that would be too\nvirulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste.\n\nAfter all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is\nby no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few,\nfavoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tuned to gladness amidst\nriches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected\nmany, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions\nof fortune.\n\nIf I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a stanza\nof an old Scottish ballad, called \"The Life and Age of Man;\"\nbeginning thus:--\n\n  'Twas in the sixteenth hundred year\n     Of God and fifty-three\n   Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear,\n     As writings testifie.\n\nI had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her\ngirlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he\ndied, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry,\nwhile my mother would sing the simple old song of \"The Life and Age\nof Man.\"\n\nIt is this way of thinking; it is these melancholy truths, that make\nreligion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men. If it is a\nmere phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm,\n\n  What truth on earth so precious as the lie?\n\nMy idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the\nnecessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings the lie.\nWho looks for the heart weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her\nGod; the correspondence fixed with heaven; the pious supplication and\ndevout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn; who\nthinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of\npublic life? No; to find them in their precious importance and divine\nefficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappointment,\naffliction, poverty, and distress.\n\nI am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased with the length of\nmy letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of next week: and it quickens my\npace to think that there will be a letter from you waiting me there. I\nmust be here again very soon for my harvest.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCI.--To MR. BEUGO, ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, 9_th Sept._ 1788.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--There is not in Edinburgh above the number of the graces\nwhose letters would have given so much pleasure as yours of the 3rd\ninstant, which only reached me yesternight.\n\nI am here on my farm, busy with my harvest; but for all that most\npleasurable part of life called SOCIAL COMMUNICATION, I am here at the\nvery elbow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this\ncountry, in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose\nthey only know in graces, prayers, etc., and the value of these they\nestimate, as they do their plaiding webs, by the ell! As for the muses,\nthey have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old,\ncapricious, but good-natured hussy of a muse,\n\n  By banks of Nith I sat and wept\n   When Coila I thought on,\n  In midst thereof I hung my harp\n   The willow trees upon.\n\nI am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my \"darling Jean,\"\nand then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my\nbecobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand\nacross the spokes of her spinning-wheel.\n\nI will send you the \"Fortunate Shepherdess\" as soon as I return to\nAyrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall send\nit by a careful hand, as I would not for anything it should be mislaid\nor lost. I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other grave\nChristian virtue; 'tis purely a selfish gratification of my own feelings\nwhenever I think of you.\n\nIf your better functions would give you leisure to write me, I should be\nextremely happy; that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a\nregular correspondence. I hate the idea of being obliged to write a\nletter. I sometimes write a friend twice a week; at other times once\na quarter.\n\nI am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you\nmention place a map of Iceland, instead of his portrait, before his\nworks; 'twas a glorious idea.\n\nCould you conveniently do me one thing?--whenever you finish any head, I\nshould like to have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a long story\nabout your fine genius; but, as what everybody knows cannot have escaped\nyou, I shall not say one syllable about it.\n\nR. B.\n\n              *      *      *      *      *\n\nCII.--To MR. ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRAY.\n\nSIR,--When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole House,\nI did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in\nShakespeare, asked Old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he\nanswers, \"Because you have that in your face which I would fain call\nmaster.\" For some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. You\nknow, I dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be\nadmitted an officer of the Excise. I have, according to form, been\nexamined by a supervisor, and today I gave in his certificate, with a\nrequest for an order for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I\nam afraid I shall but too much need a patronising friend. Propriety of\nconduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I dare\nengage for; but with anything like business, except manual labour, I am\ntotally unacquainted.\n\nI had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage of life in\nthe character of a country farmer; but, after discharging some filial\nand fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that\nmiserable manner, which I have lived to see throw a venerable parent\ninto the jaws of a jail, whence death, the poor man's last and often\nbest friend, rescued him.\n\nI know, Sir, that to need your goodness, is to have a claim on it; may\nI, therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be\nappointed to a division, where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try\nto support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been too\noften so distant from my situation.\n\nR. B.\n\n                *     *     *     *     *     *\n\nCII.--To His WIFE, AT MAUCHLINE.\n\nELLISLAND, _Friday_, 12_th Sep._ 1788.\n\nMY DEAR LOVE,--I received your kind letter with a pleasure which no\nletter but one from you could have given me. I dreamed of you the whole\nnight last; but alas! I fear it will be three weeks yet ere I can hope\nfor the happiness of seeing you. My harvest is going on. I have some to\ncut down still, but I put in two stacks to-day, so I'm as tired as\na dog.\n\nYou might get one of Gilbert's sweet-milk cheeses, and send it to.... On\nsecond thoughts I believe you had best get the half of Gilbert's web of\ntable linen and make it up; though I think it damnable dear, but it is\nno outlaid money to us, you know. I have just now consulted my old\nlandlady about table linen, and she thinks I may have the best for two\nshillings a yard; so, after all, let it alone till I return; and some\nday soon I will be in Dumfries and ask the price there. I expect your\nnew gowns will be very forward or ready to make, against I be home to\nget the _baiveridge._[88]\n\nI have written my long-thought-on letter to Mr. Graham, the Commissioner\nof Excise; and have sent a sheetful of poetry besides.\n\n   [Footnote 88: On her first appearance in public in a new dress a\n   young woman was subject to this tax, if claimed by the young man who\n   happened first to meet her. ]\n\n                  *      *      *      *      *\n\nCIV.--To Miss CHALMERS, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, NEAR DUMFRIES, _Sept_. 16_th_, 1788.\n\nWhere are you? and how are you? and is Lady Mackenzie recovering her\nhealth? for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not\nthink you have forgot me, Madam and, for my part,\n\n  When thee, Jerusalem, I forget,\n  Skill part from my right hand!\n\n\"My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea.\" I do\nnot make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its\nfellows-rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark or\nimpression, except where they hit in hostile collision.\n\nI am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and as you\nand your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves much _à\nl' egard de moi_, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness. I\ncan truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two\nwhose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul--I will not say\nmore, but so much, as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of\nyou--hearts the best, minds the noblest of human kind--unfortunate even\nin the shades of life--when I think I have met with you, and have lived\nmore of real life with you in eight days than I can do with almost\nanybody I meet with in eight years--when I think on the improbability\nof meeting you in this world again--I could sit down and cry like a\nchild! If ever you honoured me with a place in your esteem, I trust I\ncan now plead more desert. I am secure against that crushing grip of\niron poverty, which, alas! is less or more fatal to the native worth and\npurity of, I fear, the noblest souls; and a late important step in my\nlife has kindly taken me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities,\nwhich, however overlooked in fashionable licence, or varnished in\nfashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades\nof villainy.\n\nShortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married \"my Jean.\" This was\nnot in consequence of the attachment of romance, perhaps; but I had a\nlong and much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my\ndetermination, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor\nhave I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish\nmanners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the\nmultiform curse of boarding-school affectation; and I have got the\nhandsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and\nthe kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her\ncreed, that I am _le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnête homme_ in the\nuniverse; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures\nof the old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, spent\nfive minutes together on either prose or verse. I must except also from\nthis last a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has\nperused very devoutly; and all the ballads in the country, as she has (O\nthe partial lover! you will cry) the finest \"wood note wild\" I ever\nheard. I am the more particular in this lady's character, as I know she\nwill henceforth have the honour of a share in your best wishes. She is\nstill at Mauchline, as I am building my house; for this hovel that I\nshelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that\nblows, and every shower that falls; and I am only preserved from being\nchilled to death, by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm\nthat pennyworth I was taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may\nbe a saving bargain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside\nthe idle _éclat_, and bind every day after my reapers.\n\nTo save me from that horrid situation of at any time\ngoing down, in a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I\nhave taken my Excise instructions, and have my commission\nin my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If I could set\nall before your view, whatever disrespect you, in common\nwith the world, have for this business, I know you would\napprove of my idea.\n\nI will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail; I know\nyou and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. What\nsignify the silly, idle gew-gaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of\ngreatness! When fellow-partakers of the same nature fear the same God,\nhave the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same\ndetestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything\nunworthy--if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the\nname of common sense, are they not equals? And if the bias, the\ninstinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why may they not\nbe friends?\n\nWhen I may have an opportunity of sending you this, Heaven only knows.\nShenstone says, \"When one is confined idle within doors by bad weather,\nthe best antidote against _ennui_ is to read the letters of, or write\nto, one's friends;\" in that case then, if the weather continues thus, I\nmay scrawl you half a quire.\n\nI very lately--to wit, since harvest began--wrote a poem, not in\nimitation, but in the manner of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a\nshort essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's pinion in that way. I\nwill send you a copy of it, when once I have heard from you. I have\nlikewise been laying the foundation of some pretty large poetic works;\nhow the superstructure will come on, I leave to that great maker and\nmarrer of projects, time. Johnson's collection of Scots songs is going\non in the third volume; and, of consequence, finds me a consumpt for a\ngreat deal of idle metre. One of the most tolerable things I have done\nin that way, is two stanzas I made to an air a musical gentleman of my\nacquaintance composed for the anniversary of his wedding-day, which\nhappens on the seventh of November. Take it as follows:--\n\n  The day returns--my bosom burns--\n  The blissful day we twa did meet, etc.\n\nI shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a\nscribbling fit, before this goes away, I shall make it another letter;\nand then you may allow your patience a week's respite between the two. I\nhave not room for more than the old, kind, hearty farewell!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo make some amends, _mes chères Mesdames_, for dragging you on to this\nsecond sheet; and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied\nand uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late poetic\nbagatelles; though I have, these eight or ten months, done very little\nthat way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks of Nith, belonging to a\ngentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a key at\npleasure, I wrote as follows; supposing myself the sequestered,\nvenerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion.\n\n   LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE.\n\n   Thou whom chance may hither lead,\n   Be thou clad in russet weed, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCV.--To MR. MORISON, WRIGHT, MAUCHLINE.\n\nEllisland, _September_ 22_nd_ 1788.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--Necessity obliges me to go into my new house, even before\nit be plastered. I will inhabit the one end until the other is finished.\nAbout three weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, beyond\nwhich I cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wish to deserve\nthe blessing of him that was ready to perish; if ever you were in a\nsituation that a little kindness would have rescued you from many evils;\nif ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried being-get\nthese matters of mine ready.[89] My servant will be out in the beginning\nof next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison. --I am,\nafter all my tribulation, Dear Sir, yours,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 89: The letter refers to chairs and other articles of\n   furniture which the Poet had ordered.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCVI.--To MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.\n\nMauchline, 27_th Sept_. 1788.\n\nI have received twins, dear Madam, more than once; but scarcely ever\nwith more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th instant. To\nmake myself understood; I had wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem\naddressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours brought\nme an answer from him. It was dated the very day he had received mine;\nand I am quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite or kind.\n\nYour criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a\nfriend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed,\ncaterpillar critic; nor are they the fair statement of cold\nimpartiality, balancing with unfeeling exactitude the _pro_ and _con_ of\nan author's merits; they are the judicious observations of animated\nfriendship, selecting the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived from\nNithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horseback this morning\nby three o'clock; for between my wife and my farm is just forty-six\nmiles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit,\nas follows:\n\n\"Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamentation for the death of her son;\nan uncommonly promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age:--\n\n   Fate gave the word--the arrow sped,\n   And pierced my darling's heart,\"(_etc_.)\n\nYou will not send me your poetic rambles, but, you see, I am no niggard\nof mine. I am sure your impromptus give me double pleasure; what falls\nfrom your pen can neither be unentertaining in itself, nor\nindifferent to me.\n\nThe one fault you found is just: but I cannot please myself in an\nemendation.\n\nWhat a life of solicitude is the life of a parent! You interested me\nmuch in your young couple.\n\nI would not take my folio paper for this epistle, and now I repent it. I\nam so jaded with my dirty long journey, that I was afraid to drawl into\nthe essence of dulness with anything larger than a quarto, and so I must\nleave out another rhyme of this morning's manufacture.\n\nI will pay the sapientipotent George most cheerfully, to hear from you\nere I leave Ayrshire. R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCVII--To MR. PETER HILL.\n\nMauchline, 1_st October_ 1788.\n\nI have been here in this country about three days, and all that time my\nchief reading has been the \"Address to Lochlomond\" you were so obliging\nas to send to me. Were I impanneled one of the author's jury, to\ndetermine his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my verdict should\nbe \"Guilty! A poet of nature's making!\" It is an excellent method for\nimprovement, and what I believe every poet does, to place some favourite\nclassic author in his walks of study and composition before him as a\nmodel. Though your author had not mentioned the name, I could have, at\nhalf a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my brother-poet\nforgive me if I venture to hint that his imitation of that immortal bard\nis, in two or three places, rather more servile than such a genius as\nhis required:--_e.g._\n\n  To soothe the maddening passions all to peace.\n    ADDRESS.\n  To soothe the throbbing passions into peace.\n    THOMSON.\n\nI think the \"Address\" is in simplicity, harmony, and elegance of\nversification, fully equal to the \"Seasons.\" Like Thomson, too, he has\nlooked into nature for himself: you meet with no copied description. One\nparticular criticism I made at first reading; in no one instance has he\nsaid too much. He never flags in his progress, but, like a true poet of\nnature's making, kindles in his course. His beginning is simple and\nmodest, as if distrustful of the strength of his passion; only, I do not\naltogether like--\n\n    Truth,\n  The soul of every song that's nobly great.\n\nFiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. Perhaps I am\nwrong: this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 7,\npage 6, \"Great lake,\" too much vulgarised by every-day language for so\nsublime a poem?\n\n  Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song,\n\nis perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a comparison with other\nlakes is at once harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must\nsweep the\n\n  Winding margin of a hundred miles.\n\nThe perspective that follows mountains blue--the imprisoned billows\nbeating in vain--the wooded isles--the digression on the\nyew-tree--\"Benlomond's lofty, cloud-envelop'd head,\" etc., are\nbeautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject which has been often tried, yet\nour poet, in his grand picture, has interjected a circumstance, so far\nas I know, entirely original in\n\n    the gloom\n  Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire.\n\nIn his preface to the Storm, \"the glens how dark between,\" is noble\nhighland landscape! The \"rain ploughing the red mould,\" too, is\nbeautifully fancied. \"Benlomond's lofty, pathless top,\" is a good\nexpression; and the surrounding view from it is truly great: the\n\n    silver mist,\n  Beneath the beaming sun,\n\nis well described; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with a\nlittle of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern\nmuses altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty on the\nwhole, but the swain's wish to carry \"some faint idea of the vision\nbright,\" to entertain her \"partial listening ear,\" is a pretty thought.\nBut, in my opinion, the most beautiful passages in the whole poem are\nthe fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Lochlomond's \"hospitable\nflood;\" their wheeling round; their lighting, mixing, diving, etc.; and\nthe glorious description of the sportsman. This last is equal to\nanything in the \"Seasons.\" The idea of \"the floating tribes distant\nseen, far glistering to the moon,\" provoking his eye as he is obliged to\nleave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius.\n\nThe \"howling winds,\" the \"hideous roar\" of \"the white cascades,\" are all\nin the same style.\n\nI forget that while I am thus holding forth, with the heedless warmth of\nan enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, however,\nmention that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of the most\nelegant compliments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that\nbeautiful paragraph beginning \"The gleaming lake,\" etc. I dare not go\ninto the particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, but they are\nadmirably fine, and truly Ossianic. I must beg your pardon for this\nlengthened scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began--I should like to\nknow who the author is; but, whoever he be, please present him with my\ngrateful thanks for the entertainment he has afforded me.[90]\n\nA friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, _Letters on\nthe Religion essential to Man_, a book you sent me before; and _The\nWorld Unmasked, or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat_. Send me them by\nthe first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant; I only\nwish it had been in two volumes. R. B.\n\n   [Footnote 90: The poem, entitled \"An Address to Lochlomond,\" is said\n   to have been written by one of the masters of the High School of\n   Edinburgh.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCVIIL--To THE EDITOR OF THE \"STAR\".\n\n_November_ 8_th_, 1788.\n\nSir,--Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some of our\nphilosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature--the\nprinciple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have\ngiven us--still, the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed,\nor insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows that they are\nnot natives of the human heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind who\nis undone, the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes--who\nbut sympathises with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother? We\nforget the injuries, and feel for the man.\n\nI went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join in\ngrateful acknowledgment to the AUTHOR OF ALL GOOD for the consequent\nblessings of the glorious Revolution. To that auspicious event we owe no\nless than our liberties, civil and religious; to it we are likewise\nindebted for the present Royal Family, the ruling features of whose\nadministration have ever been mildness to the subject, and tenderness of\nhis rights.\n\nBred and educated in revolution principles, the principles of reason and\ncommon sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which made\nmy heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner in which the reverend\ngentleman mentioned the House of Stuart, and which, I am afraid, was too\nmuch the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our\ndeliverance from past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes of\nthose whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their crime, to be the\nauthors of those evils; and we may bless GOD for all His goodness to us\nas a nation, without, at the same time, cursing a few ruined, powerless\nexiles, who only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most of us\nwould have done, had we been in their situation.\n\n\"The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart\" may be said with propriety\nand justice, when compared with the present Royal Family, and the\nsentiments of our days; but is there no allowance to be made for the\nmanners of the times? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stuarts more\nattentive to their subjects' rights? Might not the epithets of \"bloody\nand tyrannical\" be, with at least equal justice, applied to the House of\nTudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors?\n\nThe simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be this:--At that period,\nthe science of government, the knowledge of the true relation between\nking and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in\nits infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and barbarity.\n\nThe Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their\npredecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries enjoying;\nbut these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation and\nthe rights of subjects.\n\nIn this contest between prince and people, the consequence of that light\nof science which had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of France,\nfor example, was victorious over the struggling liberties of his people:\nwith us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable pretensions\nfell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it was owing to\nthe wisdom of leading individuals, or to the justling of parties, I\ncannot pretend to determine; but, likewise, happily for us, the kingly\npower was shifted into another branch of the family, who, as they owed\nthe throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim nothing\ninconsistent with the covenanted terms which placed them there.\n\nThe Stuarts have been condemned and laughed at, for the folly and\nimpracticability of their attempts in 1715, and 1745. That they failed,\nI bless GOD; but cannot join in the ridicule against them. Who does not\nknow that the abilities or defects of leaders and commanders are often\nhidden, until put to the touchstone of exigency; and that there is a\ncaprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and\nconjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as\nmadmen, just as they are for or against us?\n\nMan, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being: who would\nbelieve, Sir, that in this our Augustan age of liberality and\nrefinement, while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our rights\nand liberties, and animated with such indignation against the very\nmemory of those who would have subverted them--that a certain people\nunder our national protection should complain, not against our monarch\nand a few favourite advisers, but against our WHOLE LEGISLATIVE BODY,\nfor similar oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as our\nforefathers did of the House of Stuart! I will not, I cannot, enter into\nthe merits of the cause; but I dare say the American Congress, in 1776,\nwill be allowed to be as able and enlightened as the English Convention\nwas in 1688; and that their posterity will celebrate the centenary of\ntheir deliverance from us, as duly and sincerely, as we do ours from the\noppressive measures of the wrong-headed House of Stuart.\n\nTo conclude, Sir; let every man who has a tear for the many miseries\nincident to humanity, feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe,\nand unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let every Briton (and\nparticularly every Scotsman) who ever looked with reverential pity on\nthe dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistake of the Kings\nof his forefathers.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCIX.--TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS.\n\nMAUCHLINE, 13_th November_ 1788.\n\nMadam,--I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men\nare said to flatter women because they are weak, if it is so, poets must\nbe weaker still; for Misses R. and K. and Miss G. M'K., with their\nflattering attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned my\nhead. I own they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron,\nbut they so intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and delicate\ninnuendos of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky\nrecollection, how much additional weight and lustre your good opinion\nand friendship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon\nmyself as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say one word how\nmuch I was charmed with the Major's friendly welcome, elegant manner,\nand acute remark, lest I should be thought to balance my orientalisms of\napplause over-against the finest heifer in Ayrshire, which he made me a\npresent of to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was on hallow-day, I\nam determined annually as that day returns, to decorate her horns with\nan ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop.\n\nSo soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first\nconveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship,\nunder the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. There will soon be three\nscore and ten miles of permanent distance between us; and now that your\nfriendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the\nheart-strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy\nday of \"the feast of reason and the flow of soul.\"\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCX.--TO DR. BLACKLOCK.\n\nMAUCHLINE, _November_ 15_th_, 1788.\n\nReverend and dear Sir,--As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you\nare, or were, out of town, I do not know where this may find you, or\nwhether it will find you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from\nthe land of matrimony, in June; but either it had not found you, or,\nwhat I dread more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a\nstate of health and spirits to take notice of an idle packet.\n\nI have done many little things for Johnson since I had the pleasure of\nseeing you; and I have finished one piece, in the way of Pope's \"Moral\nEpistles;\" but, from your silence, I have everything to fear, so I have\nonly sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble to fear may too\nwell suit the tone of your present feelings.\n\nIn a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale; till then, my\ndirection is at this place; after that period, it will be at Ellisland,\nnear Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me, were it but half a line, to\nlet me know how you are, and where you are. Can I be indifferent to the\nfate of a man to whom I owe so much--a man whom I not only esteem,\nbut venerate?\n\nMy warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs.\nBlacklock, and Miss Johnson, if she is with you.\n\nI cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased\nwith the step I took respecting \"my Jean.\" Two things, from my happy\nexperience, I set down as apophthegms in life,--a wife's head is\nimmaterial, compared with her heart; and \"Virtue's (for wisdom, what\npoet pretends to it?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths\nare peace.\" Adieu!\n\nR. B.[91]\n\n   [Footnote 91: Here follow \"The mother's lament for the loss of her\n   son,\" and the song beginning \"The lazy mist hangs from the brow of\n   the hill.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXI.--TO MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, 17_th December_ 1788.\n\nMy dear honoured friend,--Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just\nread, makes me very unhappy. \"Almost blind and wholly deaf\" are\nmelancholy news of human nature; but when told of a much-loved and\nhonoured friend, they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part,\nand gratitude on mine, began a tie which has gradually entwisted itself\namong the dearest chords of my bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your\nlate and present ailing habit and shattered health. You miscalculate\nmatters widely, when you forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt\nmy worldly concerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more\nsimple and easy than what you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But, be\nthat as it may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the\ntwo grand considerations for which I live: if miry ridges and dirty\ndunghills are to engross the best part of the functions of my soul\nimmortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then I\nshould not have been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of\nclods and picking up grubs; not to mention barn-door cocks of mallards,\ncreatures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. If you\ncontinue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to\neither of us; but if I hear you are got so well again as to be able to\nrelish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I will make my\nthreatenings good. I am to be at the New-year-day fair of Ayr, and, by\nall that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you.\n\nYour meeting, which you so well describe, with your old schoolfellow and\nfriend, was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world! They\nspoil these \"social offsprings of the heart.\" Two veterans of the \"men\nof the world\" would have met with little more heart-workings than two\nold hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, \"Auld\nlang syne,\" exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune which\nhas often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old\nScotch song. I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as I\nsuppose Mr. Kerr[92] will save you the postage.\n\n  Should auld acquaintance be forgot?\n\nLight be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired poet who composed\nthis glorious fragment! There is more of the fire of native genius in it\nthan in half a dozen of modern English Bacchanalians! Now I am on my\nhobbyhorse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which please\nme mightily:--\n\n  Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 92: Postmaster in Edinburgh.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCXII.--TO MR. JOHN TENNANT.\n\n_December_ 22_nd_, 1788.\n\nI yesterday tried my cask of whisky for the first time, and I assure you\nit does you great credit. It will bear five waters, strong: or six\nordinary toddy. The whisky of this country is a most rascally liquor;\nand, by consequence, only drunk by the most rascally part of the\ninhabitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a footing here, you might\ndo a great deal of business, in the way of consumpt; and should you\ncommence distiller again, this is the native barley country. I am\nignorant if, in your present way of dealing, you would think it worth\nyour while to extend your business so far as this country-side. I write\nyou this on the account of an accident, which I must take the merit of\nhaving partly designed too. A neighbour of mine, a John Currie, miller,\nin Carse Mill--a man who is, in a word, a very good man, even for a £500\nbargain--he and his wife were in my house the time I broke open the\ncask. They keep a country public-house and sell a great deal of foreign\nspirits, but all along thought that whisky would have degraded their\nhouse. They were perfectly astonished at my whisky, both for its taste\nand strength; and, by their desire, I write you to know if you could\nsupply them with liquor of an equal quality, and what price. Please\nwrite me by first post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. If\nyou could take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife,\nand fork, very much at your service. My compliments to Mrs. Tennant, and\nall the good folks in Glenconnel and Barguharrie.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXIII.--TO MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, _New-year-day Morning_, 1789.\n\nThis, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I came\nunder the Apostle James's description!--_the prayer of a righteous man\navaileth much_. In that case, Madam, you should welcome in a year full\nof blessings: everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and\nself-enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity\ncan taste, should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that\nI approve of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of\ndevotion, for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and\nthought, which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct,\nor even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little superior\nto mere machinery.\n\nThis day; the first Sunday of May; a breezy blue-skyed noon some time\nabout the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the\nend of autumn; these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind\nof holiday.\n\nI believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the _Spectator_ \"The\nVision of Mirza,\" a piece that struck my young fancy before I was\ncapable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables: \"On the fifth\nday of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I\nalways _keep holy_, after having washed myself, and offered up my\nmorning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass\nthe rest of the day in meditation and prayer.\"\n\nWe know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of\nour souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that\none should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that,\nwhich, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary impression.\nI have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the\nmountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the\nbudding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with\nparticular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the\ncurlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey\nplovers, in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul\nlike the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to\nwhat can this be owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the\nÆolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the passing accident? Or\ndo these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod? I\nown myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important\nrealities--a God that made all things--man's immaterial and immortal\nnature--and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXIV.-TO DR. MOORE, LONDON.\n\nELLISLAND, 4_th Jan._ 1789.\n\nSir,--As often as I think of writing to you, which has been three or\nfour times every week these six months, it gives me something so like\nthe idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a conversation with the\nRhodian Colossus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair always\nmiscarries somewhere between purpose and resolve. I have at last got\nsome business with you, and business letters are written by the\nstyle-book. I say my business is with you, Sir, for you never had any\nwith me, except the business that benevolence has in the mansion\nof poverty.\n\nThe character and employment of a poet were formerly my pleasure, but\nare now my pride. I know that a very great deal of my late éclat was\nowing to the singularity of my situation, and the honest prejudice of\nScotsmen; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do\nlook upon myself as having some pretensions from nature to the poetic\ncharacter. I have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the\nMuses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him \"who forms the secret bias of\nthe soul;\" but I as firmly believe that _excellence_ in the profession\nis the fruit of industry, labour, attention, and pains. At least I am\nresolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. Another\nappearance from the press I put off to a very distant day, a day that\nmay never arrive--but poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my\nvigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of the profession, the\ntalents of shining in every species of composition. I shall try (for\nuntil trial it is impossible to know) whether she has qualified me to\nshine in any one. The worst of it is, by the time one has finished a\npiece, it has been so often viewed and reviewed before the mental eye,\nthat one loses in a good measure the powers of critical discrimination.\nHere the best criterion I know is a friend--not only of abilities to\njudge, but with good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher with a young\nlearner, to praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, lest the\nthin-skinned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic\ndiseases--heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already\nimmensely indebted to your goodness, ask the additional obligation of\nyour being that friend to me? I inclose you an essay of mine in a walk\nof poesy to me entirely new; I mean the epistle addressed to R. G.,\nEsq., or Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth,\nto whom I lie under very great obligations. The story of the poem, like\nmost of my poems, is connected with my own story, and to give you the\none, I must give you something of the other. I cannot boast of Mr.\nCreech's ingenuous fair dealing to me. He kept me hanging about\nEdinburgh from the 7th August 1787 until the 13th April 1788 before he\nwould condescend to give a statement of affairs; nor had I got it even\nthen, but for an angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his pride. \"I\ncould\" not a \"tale,\" but a detail \"unfold\"; but what am I that should\nspeak against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edinburgh?[93]\n\nI believe I shall, in whole, £100 copyright included, clear about £400,\nsome little odds; and even part of this depends upon what the gentleman\nhas yet to settle with me. I give you this information, because you did\nme the honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. I give you this\ninformation, but I give it to yourself only, for I am still much in the\ngentleman's mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes\ntempted to have of him--God forbid I should. A little time will try, for\nin a month I shall go to town to wind up the business, if possible.\n\nTo give the rest of my story in brief, I have married \"my Jean,\" and\ntaken a farm; with the first step I have every day more and more reason\nto be satisfied; with the last, it is rather the reverse. I have a\nyounger brother, who supports my aged mother, another still younger\nbrother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from Edinburgh\nit cost me about £180 to save them from ruin.\n\nNot that I have lost so much--I only interposed between my brother and\nhis impending fate by the loan of so much. I give myself no airs on\nthis, for it was mere selfishness on my part; I was conscious that the\nwrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought\nthat throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affection into the\nscale in my favour, might help to smooth matters at the _grand\nreckoning_. There is still one thing would make my circumstances quite\neasy--I have an excise officer's commission, and I live in the midst of\na country division. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the\ncommissioners of excise, was, if in his power, to procure me that\ndivision. If I were very sanguine, I might hope that some of my great\npatrons might procure me a treasury warrant for supervisor,\nsurveyor-general, etc.\n\nThus, secure of a livelihood, \"to thee, sweet poetry, delightful\nmaid,\"[94] I would consecrate my future days.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 93: Creech; remarkable for his reluctance to settle\n   accounts.]\n\n   [Footnote 94: Goldsmith's \"Deserted Village.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXV.--TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.\n\nELLISLAND, _January_ 6_th_, 1789.\n\nMany happy returns of the season to you, my dear Sir! May you be\ncomparatively happy, up to your comparative worth among the sons of men;\nwhich wish would, I am sure, make you one of the most blessed of the\nhuman race.\n\nI do not know if passing a \"Writer to the Signet\" be a trial of\nscientific merit, or a mere business of friends and interest. However it\nbe, let me quote you my two favourite passages, which, though I have\nrepeated them ten thousand times, still they rouse my manhood and steel\nmy resolution like inspiration.\n\n    On Reason build resolve.\n  That column of true majesty in man.\n\n    YOUNG.\n\n  Hear, Alfred, hero of the slate,\n  Thy genius heaven's high will declare;\n  The triumph of the truly great,\n  Is never, never to despair!\n  Is never to despair!\n\n    MASQUE OF ALFRED.\n\nI grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle for bread, business,\nnotice, and distinction, in common with hundreds. But who are they? Men\nlike yourself, and of that aggregate body your compeers, seven-tenths of\nthem come short of your advantages, natural and accidental; while two of\nthose that remain, either neglect their parts, as flowers blooming in a\ndesert, or misspend their strength like a bull goring a bramble bush.\n\nBut to change the theme: I am still catering for Johnson's publication;\nand among others, I have brushed up the following old favourite song a\nlittle, with a view to your worship. I have only altered a word here and\nthere; but if you like the humour of it, we shall think of a stanza or\ntwo to add to it. R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXVI.--TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART.\n\nELLISLAND, 20_th Jan_. 1789.\n\nSir,--The inclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh, a few days after I\nhad the happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for the\nContinent. I have now added a few more of my productions, those for\nwhich I am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The piece inscribed to R.\nG., Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham, of Fintry, accompanying\na request for his assistance in a matter to me of very great moment. To\nthat gentleman I am already doubly indebted; for deeds of kindness of\nserious import to my dearest interests, done in a manner grateful to the\ndelicate feelings of sensibility. This poem is a species of composition\nnew to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, as\nyou will see by the \"Poet's Progress.\" These fragments, if my design\nsucceed, are but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it shall\nbe the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years; of course I do not\nwish it much known. The fragment beginning \"A little upright, pert,\ntart,\" etc., I have not shown to man living, till I now send it you. It\nforms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which,\nif it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This\nparticular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at\nportrait-sketching; but, lest idle conjecture should pretend to point\nout the original, please to let it be for your single, sole inspection.\n\nNeed I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman who has treated\nme with such marked benevolence and peculiar kindness; who has entered\ninto my interests with so much zeal, and on whose critical decisions I\ncan so fully depend? A poet as I am by trade, these decisions are to me\nof the last consequence. My late transient acquaintance among some of\nthe mere rank and file of greatness, I resign with ease; but to the\ndistinguished champions of genius and learning, I shall be ever\nambitious of being known. The native genius and accurate discernment in\nMr. Stewart's critical strictures; the justness (iron justice, for he\nhas no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr. Gregory's\nremarks, and the delicacy of Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall\never revere.\n\nI shall be in Edinburgh some time next month.--I have the honour to be,\nSir, your highly obliged, and very humble servant, R. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXVII.--TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN, SAUGHTON MILLS.\n\nELLISLAND, 23_rd Jan_. 1789.\n\nI must take shame and confusion of face to myself, my dear friend and\nbrother Farmer, that I have not written you much sooner. The truth is I\nhave been so tossed about between Ayrshire and Nithsdale that, till now\nI have got my family here, I have had time to think of nothing except\nnow and then a stanza or so as I rode along. Were it not for our\ngracious monarch's cursed tax of postage I had sent you one or two\npieces of some length that I have lately done. I have no idea of the\n_Press_. I am more able to support myself and family, though in a\nhumble, yet an independent way; and I mean, just at my leisure, to pay\ncourt to the tuneful sisters in the hope that they may one day enable me\nto carry on a work of some importance. The following are a few verses\nwhich I wrote in a neighbouring gentleman's _hermitage_ to which he is\nso good as let me have a key.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXVIII.--To BISHOP GEDDES, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, _3rd Feb_. 1789.\n\nVENERABLE FATHER,--As I am conscious that wherever I am, you do me the\nhonour to interest yourself in my welfare, it gives me pleasure to\ninform you, that I am here at last, stationary in the serious business\nof life, and have now not only the retired leisure, but the hearty\ninclination, to attend to those great and important questions,--what I\nam? where I am? and for what I am destined.\n\nIn that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but one\nside on which I was habitually blameable, and there I have secured\nmyself in the way pointed out by nature and nature's God. I was sensible\nthat, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family were\nincumbrances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun; but when\nthe alternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on account of\nhabitual follies, to give them no worse name, which no general example,\nno licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever\njustify, I must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to have\nmade another choice. Besides, I had in \"my Jean\" a long and much-loved\nfellow-creature's happiness or misery among my hands, and who could\ntrifle with such a deposit?\n\nIn the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably secure: I have\ngood hopes of my farm, but should they fail, I have an excise\ncommission, which, on my simple petition, will, at any time, procure me\nbread. There is a certain stigma affixed to the character of an excise\nofficer, but I do not pretend to borrow honour from my profession; and\nthough the salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that\nthe first twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect.\n\nThus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily guess, my\nreverend and much-honoured friend, that my characteristical trade is not\nforgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses.\nI am determined to study man and nature, and in that view incessantly;\nand to try if the ripening and corrections of years can enable me to\nproduce something worth preserving.\n\nYou will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for detaining so\nlong, that I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some large\npoetic plans that are floating in my imagination, or partly put in\nexecution, I shall impart to you when I have the pleasure of meeting\nwith you; which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have about the\nbeginning of March.\n\nThat acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were pleased to honour me,\nyou must still allow me to challenge; for, with whatever unconcern I\ngive up my transient connection with the merely great, I cannot lose the\npatronising notice of the learned and good without the bitterest regret.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXIX.--TO MR. JAMES BURNESS.\n\nELLISLAND, _9th Feb_. 1789.\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--Why I did not write to you long ago is what, even on the\nrack, I could not answer. If you can in your mind form an idea of\nindolence, dissipation, hurry, cares, change of country, entering on\nuntried scenes of life, all combined, you will save me the trouble of a\nblushing apology. It could not be want of regard for a man for whom I\nhad a high esteem before I knew him--an esteem which has much increased\nsince I did know him; and this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to\nany other indictment with which you shall please to charge me.\n\nAfter I parted from you, for many months my life was one continued scene\nof dissipation. Here at last I am become stationary, and have taken a\nfarm and--a wife.\n\nThe farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river that runs by\nDumfries, and falls into the Solway frith. I have gotten a lease of my\nfarm as long as I please; but how it may turn out is just a guess, and\nit is yet to improve and inclose, etc.; however, I have good hopes of my\nbargain on the whole.\n\nMy wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly acquainted. I found\nI had a much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery among my hands,\nand I durst not trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed, I have not any\nreason to repent the step I have taken, as I have attached myself to a\nvery good wife, and have shaken myself loose of every bad failing.\n\nI have found my book a very profitable business, and with the profits of\nit I have begun life pretty decently. Should fortune not favour me in\nfarming, as I have no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have\nprovided myself in another resource, which, however some folks may\naffect to despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of\nmisfortune. In the hey-day of my fame, a gentleman, whose name at least\nI daresay you know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr.\nGraham, of Fintry, one of the commissioners of Excise, offered me the\ncommission of an excise officer. I thought it prudent to accept the\noffer; and, accordingly, I took my instructions, and have my commission\nby me. Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it, is\nwhat I do not know; but I have the comfortable assurance that, come\nwhatever ill fate will, I can, on my simple petition to the Excise\nBoard, get into employ.\n\nWe have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. He has long been very weak,\nand with very little alteration on him; he expired 3rd January.\n\nHis son William has been with me this winter, and goes in May to be an\napprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John, comes to me I\nexpect in summer. They are both remarkably stout young fellows, and\npromise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me ever\nsince her father's death, and I purpose keeping her in my family till\nshe is woman grown, and fit for better service. She is one of the\ncleverest girls, and has one of the most amiable dispositions I have\never seen.\n\nAll friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me to all\nfriends in the north. My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. and\nfamily.--I am ever, my dear cousin, yours sincerely,\n\nR. B.[95]\n\n   [Footnote 95: \"Fanny Burns, the Poet's relation, merited all the\n   commendations he has here bestowed. I remember her while she lived at\n   Ellisland, and better still as the wife of Adam Armour, the brother\n   of bonnie Jean.\"--CUNNINGHAM.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXX.-To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, 4_th March_ 1789.\n\nHere am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. To a man\nwho has a home, however humble or remote--if that home is like mine, the\nscene of domestic comfort--the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a\nbusiness of sickening disgust.\n\n  Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you!\n\nWhen I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some\ngaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to\nexclaim--\"What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in some\nstate of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with\nthe sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am\nkicked into the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of pride?\" I\nhave read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it was) who was so\nout of humour with the Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, had\nhe been of the Creator's council, he could have saved him a great deal\nof labour and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech; but\noften, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Princes\nStreet, it has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present\nhuman figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his\nconsequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his\ncommon size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a\nperspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious\nsaving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb-sinews of\nmany of his majesty's liege-subjects, in the way of tossing the head and\ntip-toe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage, in\nenabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or making\nway to a great man, and that too within a second of the precise\nspherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the particular point of\nrespectful distance, which the important creature itself requires, as a\nmeasuring-glance at its towering altitude would determine the affair\nlike instinct.\n\nYou are right, Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which he has\naddressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one\ngreat fault--it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success has encouraged\nsuch a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, under\nthe title of Scottish Poets, that the very term Scottish Poetry borders\non the burlesque. When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather\nto try one of his deceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigiously\nhurried with my own matters, else I would have requested a perusal of\nall Mylne's poetic performances, and would have offered his friends my\nassistance in either selecting or correcting what would be proper for\nthe press. What it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps a little\noppresses my present spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future\nletter. In the meantime, allow me to close this epistle with a few lines\ndone by a friend of mine.... I give you them, that, as you have seen the\noriginal, you may guess whether one or two alterations I have ventured\nto make in them, be any real improvement.\n\n  Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws,\n  Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause,\n  Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream,\n  And all you are, my charming Rachel, seem.\n  Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose,\n  Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows,\n  Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind,\n  Your form shall be the image of your mind;\n  Your manners shall so true your soul express,\n  That all shall long to know the worth they guess;\n  Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love,\n  And even sick'ning envy must approve.[96]\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 96: These lines are Mrs. Dunlop's own, addressed to her\n   daughter.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXI.--TO MRS. M'LEHOSE (FORMERLY CLARINDA).\n\nELLISLAND, _Mar. 9th_, 1789.\n\nMadam,--The letter you wrote me to Heron's carried its own answer. You\nforbade me to write you unless I was willing to plead guilty to a\ncertain indictment you were pleased to bring against me. As I am\nconvinced of my own innocence, and, though conscious of high imprudence\nand egregious folly, can lay my hand on my breast and attest the\nrectitude of my heart, you will pardon me, Madam, if I do not carry my\ncomplaisance so far as humbly to acquiesce in the name of \"Villain\"\nmerely out of compliment to your opinion, much as I esteem your judgment\nand warmly as I regard your worth.\n\nI have already told you, and I again aver it, that, at the time alluded\nto, I was not under the smallest moral tie to Mrs. Burns; nor did I, nor\ncould I, then know all the powerful circumstances that omnipotent\nnecessity was busy laying in wait for me. When you call over the scenes\nthat have passed between us, you will survey the conduct of an honest\nman struggling successfully with temptations the most powerful that ever\nbeset humanity, and preserving untainted honour in situations where the\nausterest virtue would have forgiven a fall; situations that, I will\ndare to say not a single individual of all his kind, even with half his\nsensibility and passion, could have encountered without ruin; and I\nleave you, Madam, to guess how such a man is likely to digest an\naccusation of \"perfidious treachery.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen I shall have regained your good opinion, perhaps I may venture to\nsolicit your friendship; but, be that as it may, the first of her sex I\never knew shall always be the object of my warmest good wishes.\n\nROBT. BURNS.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXIL--TO DR. MOORE.\n\nELLISLAND, _23rd March_ 1789.\n\nSir,--The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr. Nielson, a worthy\nclergyman in my neighbourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of\nmine. As I have troubled him with this packet, I must turn him over to\nyour goodness, to recompense him for it in a way in which he much needs\nyour assistance, and where you can effectually serve him. Mr. Nielson is\non his way for France, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, on some\nlittle business of a good deal of importance to him, and he wishes for\nyour instructions respecting the most eligible mode of travelling, etc.,\nfor him, when he has crossed the channel. I should not have dared to\ntake this liberty with you, but that I am told, by those who have the\nhonour of your personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotsman\nis a letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in your power\nto serve such a character, gives you much pleasure.\n\nThe inclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. Oswald\nof Auchencruive. You probably knew her personally, an honour of which I\ncannot boast; but I spent my early years in the neighbourhood, and among\nher servants and tenants. I know that she was detested with the most\nheartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular part of her conduct\nwhich roused my poetic wrath, she was much less blameable. In January\nlast, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Whigham's, in\nSanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and\nthe grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and\ndrift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the labours of the\nday, and just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the\nstorm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late\ngreat Mrs. Oswald, and poor I am forced to brave all the horrors of the\ntempestuous night, and jade my horse, my young favourite horse, whom I\nhad just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the\nwildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The\npowers of poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe what I\nfelt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at New Cumnock had so far\nrecovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the inclosed ode.\n\nI was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech; and I\nmust own, that at last, he has been amicable and fair with me.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXIII.--To HIS BROTHER, MR. WILLIAM BURNS.\n\nISLE, March 25th 1789.\n\nI have stolen from my corn-sowing this minute to write a line to\naccompany your shirt and hat, for I can no more. Your sister Nannie\narrived yesternight, and begs to be remembered to you. Write me every\nopportunity--never mind postage. My head, too, is as addle as an egg\nthis morning, with dining abroad yesterday. I received yours by the\nmason. Forgive me this foolish looking scrawl of an epistle.--I am ever,\nmy dear William, yours,\n\nR. B.\n\nP.S.--If you are not then gone from Longtown, I'll write you a long\nletter by this day se'ennight. If you should not succeed in your tramps,\ndon't be dejected, or take any rash step--return to us in that case, and\nwe will court Fortune's better humour. Remember this, I charge you.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXIV.--To MR. HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, _2nd April_ 1789.\n\nI will make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus (God forgive me for murdering\nlanguage!) that I have sat down to write you on this vile paper.\n\nIt is economy, Sir; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence; so I beg you\nwill sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are\ngoing to borrow, apply to[97] ... to compose, or rather to compound,\nsomething very clever on my remarkable frugality; that I write to one of\nmy most esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was originally\nintended for the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty\nnotes in a miserable vault of an ale-cellar.\n\nO Frugality! thou mother of ten thousand blessings--thou cook of fat\nbeef and dainty greens!--thou manufacturer of warm Shetland hose, and\ncomfortable surtouts!--thou old housewife, darning thy decayed\nstockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose!--lead me, hand\nme in thy clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and through those\nthickets, hitherto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxious, weary\nfeet:--not those Parnassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry\nworshippers of fame are, breathless, clambering, hanging between heaven\nand hell; but those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the\nall-sufficient, all-powerful deity, wealth, holds his immediate court of\njoy and pleasures; where the sunny exposure of plenty, and the hot walls\nof profusion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in this\nworld, and natives of paradise!--Thou withered sibyl, my sage\nconductress, usher me into thy refulgent, adored presence!--The power,\nsplendid and potent as he now is, was once the puling nursling of thy\nfaithful care and tender arms! Call me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman,\nor favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of his infant years, no\nlonger to repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with\nhis peculiar countenance and protection! He daily bestows his great\nkindness on the undeserving and the worthless--assure him that I bring\nample documents of meritorious demerits! Pledge yourself for me, that,\nfor the glorious cause of lucre, I will do anything, be anything; but\nthe horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of public robbery!\n\nBut to descend from heroics.\n\nI want a Shakespeare; I want likewise an English dictionary,--Johnson's,\nI suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commissions, the cheapest\nis always the best for me. There is a small debt of honour that I owe\nMr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and your\nwell-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, the first time\nyou see him, ten shillings worth of anything you have to sell, and place\nit to my account.\n\nThe library scheme that I mentioned to you is already begun under the\ndirection of Captain Riddel. There is another in emulation of it going\non at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith of Closeburn, which\nwill be on a greater scale than ours. Captain Riddel gave his infant\nsociety a great many of his old books, else I had written you on that\nsubject; but, one of these days, I shall trouble you with a commission\nfor \"The Monkland Friendly Society,\" a copy of _The Spectator_,\n_Mirror_, and _Lounger_, _Man of Feeling_, _Man of the World_,\n_Guthrie's Geographical Grammar_, with some religious pieces, will\nlikely be our first order.\n\nWhen I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt-post, to make amends for\nthis sheet. At present every guinea has a five guinea errand with, my\ndear Sir, your faithful, poor, but honest friend,\n\nR. B.\n\n[Footnote 97: Creech? or Ramsay of _The Courant?_]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXV.--TO MRS. M'MURDO, DRUMLANRIG.\n\nELLISLAND, _2nd May_ 1789.\n\nMadam,--I have finished the piece which had the happy fortune to be\nhonoured with your approbation; and never did little Miss, with more\nsparkling pleasure, show her applauded sampler to partial Mamma, than I\nnow send my poem to you and Mr. M'Murdo,[98] if he is returned to\nDrumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned animals--what\nsensitive plants poor poets are. How do we shrink into the imbittered\ncorner of self-abasement, when neglected or condemned by those to whom\nwe look up! and how do we, in erect importance, add another cubit to our\nstature on being noticed and applauded by those whom we honour and\nrespect! My late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, Madam, given\nme a balloon waft up Parnassus, where, on my fancied elevation, I regard\nmy poetic self with no small degree of complacency. Surely with all\ntheir sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful creatures--I recollect\nyour goodness to your humble guest--I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the\npoliteness of the gentleman, the kindness of a friend, and my heart\nswells as it would burst, with warm emotions and ardent wishes! It may\nbe it is not gratitude--it may be a mixed sensation. That strange,\nshifting, doubling animal, MAN, is so generally, at best, but a\nnegative, often a worthless creature, that we cannot see real goodness\nand native worth, without feeling the bosom glow with sympathetic\napprobation. With every sentiment of grateful respect, I have the honour\nto be, Madam, your obliged and grateful humble servant,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 98: The piece beginning--There was a lass and she was\n   fair.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXVI.--TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.\n\nELL ISLAND, 4_th May_ 1789.\n\nMy dear Sir,--Your _duty-free_ favour of the 25th April I received two\ndays ago; I will not say I perused it with pleasure; that is the cold\ncompliment of ceremony; I perused it, Sir, with delicious\nsatisfaction;--in short, it is such a letter, that not you, nor your\nfriend, but the legislature, by express proviso in their postage laws,\nshould frank. A letter informed with the soul of friendship is such an\nhonour to human nature, that they should order it free ingress and\negress to and from their bags and mails, as an encouragement and mark of\ndistinction to supereminent virtue.\n\nI have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will be\nsomething to your taste.[99] One morning lately, as I was out pretty\nearly in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a\nshot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded\nhare came crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman\nfellow who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have\nyoung ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying,\nfor our sport, individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us\nmaterially, which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue.\n\nLet me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would not be\nan improvement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether.\n\nCruikshank is a glorious production of the author of man. You, he, and\nthe noble Colonel[100] of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me\n\n  Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart.\n\nI have got a good mind to make verses on you all, to the tune of \"_Three\nguid fellows ayont the glen_\"\n\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 99: See the poem on the \"Wounded Hare.\"]\n\n   [Footnote 100: That is, William Dunbar, W.S.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXVIL--TO MR. RICHARD BROWN.\n\nMAUCHLINE, _21st May_ 1789.\n\nMy Dear Friend,--I was in the country by accident, and hearing of your\nsafe arrival, I could not resist the temptation of wishing you joy on\nyour return--wishing you would write to me before you sail\nagain--wishing that you would always set me down as your bosom\nfriend--wishing you long life and prosperity, and that every good thing\nmay attend you--wishing Mrs. Brown and your little ones as free of the\nevils of this world as is consistent with humanity--wishing you and she\nwere to make two at the ensuing lying-in, with which Mrs. B. threatens\nvery soon to favour me--wishing I had longer time to write to you at\npresent; and, finally, wishing that if there is to be another state of\nexistence, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Burns, our little ones of both families, and\nyou and I, in some snug retreat, may make a jovial party to\nall eternity!\n\nMy direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries.--Yours,\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXVIIL--To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.\n\nELLISLAND, _8th June_ 1789.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND,--I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the\ndate of your last. It is not that I forget the friend of my heart and\nthe companion of my peregrinations; but I have been condemned to\ndrudgery beyond sufferance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I\nhave had a collection of poems by a lady put into my hands to prepare\nthem for the press; which horrid task, with sowing corn with my own\nhand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plasterers, etc., to attend to,\nroaming on business through Ayrshire--all this was against me, and the\nvery first dreadful article was of itself too much for me.\n\n13th. I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the\n8th. Life, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know by experience that\na man's individual self is a good deal, but believe me, a wife and\nfamily of children, whenever you have the honour to be a husband and a\nfather, will show you that your present and most anxious hours of\nsolitude are spent on trifles. The welfare of those who are very dear to\nus, whose only support, hope, and stay we are--this, to a generous mind,\nis another sort of more important object of care than any concerns\nwhatever which centre merely in the individual. On the other hand, let\nno young, rakehelly dog among you, make a song of his pretended liberty\nand freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country,\nkindred, and friends, be anything but the visionary fancies of dreaming\nmetaphysicians; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity\nand justice, be ought but empty sounds; then the man who may be said to\nlive only for others, for the beloved, honourable female, whose tender\nfaithful embrace endears life, and for the helpless little innocents who\nare to be the men and women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects of\nhis king, and the support, nay the very vital existence of his COUNTRY,\nin the ensuing age;--compare such a man with any fellow whatever, who,\nwhether he bustle and push in business among labourers, clerks,\nstatesmen; or whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing in taverns--a\nfellow over whose grave no one will breathe a single heigh-ho, except\nfrom the cobweb-tie of what is called good fellowship--who has no view\nnor aim but what terminates in himself--if there be any grovelling\nearth-born wretch of our species, a renegade to common sense, who would\nfain believe that the noble creature, man, is no better than a sort of\nfungus, generated out of nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipating\nin nothing, nobody knows where; such a stupid beast, such a crawling\nreptile, might balance the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but no\none else would have the patience.\n\nForgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. _To make you amends_, I\nshall send you soon, and more encouraging still, without any postage,\none or two rhymes of my later manufacture.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXIX.--TO MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, 21_st June_ 1789.\n\nDear Madam,--Will you take the effusions, the miserable effusions of low\nspirits, just as they flow from their bitter spring? I know not of any\nparticular cause for this worst of all my foes besetting me; but for\nsome time my soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of\nevil imaginations and gloomy presages.\n\n_Monday Evening._\n\nI have just heard Mr. Kilpatrick preach a sermon. He is a man famous for\nhis benevolence, and I revere him; but from such ideas of my Creator,\ngood Lord, deliver me! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely a simple\nbusiness, as it equally concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor\nand the rich. That there is an incomprehensible Great Being, to whom I\nowe my existence, and that He must be intimately acquainted with the\noperations and progress of the internal machinery, and consequent\noutward deportment of this creature which He has made; these are, I\nthink, self-evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal\ndistinction between virtue and vice, and consequently, that I am an\naccountable creature; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as\nwell as from the evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in the\nadministration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there\nmust be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave; must, I\nthink, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's\nreflection. I will go farther, and affirm, that from the sublimity,\nexcellence, and purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all\nthe aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, though, to\n_appearance_ he, himself, was the obscurest and most illiterate of our\nspecies; therefore Jesus Christ was from God.\n\nWhatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness of others, this\nis my criterion of goodness; and whatever injures society at large, or\nany individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity.\n\nWhat think you, Madam, of my creed? I trust that I have said nothing\nthat will lessen me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I value almost\nnext to the approbation of my own mind.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXX.--TO MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.\n\nELLISLAND, 1789.\n\nMadam,--Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful creature,\nman, this is one of the most extraordinary--that he shall go on from day\nto day, from week to week, from month to month, or perhaps from year to\nyear, suffering a hundred times more in an hour from the impotent\nconsciousness of neglecting what he ought to do, than the very doing of\nit would cost him. I am deeply indebted to you, first, for a most\nelegant poetic compliment; then for a polite, obliging letter; and,\nlastly, for your excellent poem on the Slave Trade; and yet, wretch that\nI am! though the debts were debts of honour, and the creditor a lady, I\nhave put off and put off even the very acknowledgment of the obligation,\nuntil you must indeed be the very angel I take you for, if you can\nforgive me.\n\nYour poem I have read with the highest pleasure. I have a way whenever I\nread a book--I mean a book in our own trade, Madam, a poetic one, and\nwhen it is my own property--that I take a pencil and mark at the ends of\nverses, or note on margins and odd paper, little criticisms of\napprobation or disapprobation as I peruse along. I will make no apology\nfor presenting you with a few unconnected thoughts that occurred to me\nin my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to show you that I have\nhonesty enough to tell you what I take to be truths, even when they are\nnot quite on the side of approbation; and I do it in the firm faith that\nyou have equal greatness of mind to hear them with pleasure. [Here\nfollows a list of strictures.]\n\nI had lately the honour of a letter from Dr. Moore, where he tells me\nthat he has sent me some books; they are not yet come to hand, but I\nhear they are on the way.\n\nWishing you all success in your progress in the path of fame, and that\nyou may equally escape the danger of stumbling through incautious speed,\nor losing ground through loitering neglect, I am, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXI.--To MR. ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRY.\n\nELLISLAND, 31st _july_ 1789.\n\nSir,--The language of gratitude has been so prostituted by servile\nadulation and designing flattery that I know not how to express myself\nwhen I would acknowledge receipt of your last letter. I beg and hope,\never-honoured \"Friend of my life and patron of my rhymes,\" that you will\nalways give me credit for the sincerest, chastest gratitude. I dare call\nthe Searcher of hearts and Author of all Goodness to witness how truly\ngrateful I am.\n\nMr. Mitchell[101] did not wait my calling on him, but sent me a kind\nletter, giving me a hint of the business; and yesterday he entered with\nthe most friendly ardour into my views and interests. He seems to think,\nand from my private knowledge I am certain he is right, that removing\nthe officer who now does, and for these many years has done, duty in the\nDivision in the middle of which I live, will be productive of at least\nno disadvantage to the revenue, and may likewise be done without any\ndetriment to him. Should the Honourable Board [of Excise] think so, and\nshould they deem it eligible to appoint me to officiate in his present\nplace, I am then at the top of my wishes. The emoluments in my office\nwill enable me to carry on, and enjoy those improvements on my farm,\nwhich but for this additional assistance, I might in a year or two have\nabandoned. Should it be judged improper to place me in this Division, I\nam deliberating whether I had not better give up my farming altogether,\nand go into the Excise whenever I can find employment. Now that the\nsalary is £50 per annum, the Excise is surely a much superior object to\na farm, which, without some foreign assistance, must for half a lease be\na losing bargain. The worst of it is--I know there are some respectable\ncharacters who do me the honour to interest themselves in my welfare and\nbehaviour, and, as leaving the farm so soon may have an unsteady,\ngiddy-headed appearance, I had better perhaps lose a little money than\nhazard their esteem.\n\nYou see, Sir, with what freedom I lay before you all my little\nmatters--little indeed to the world, but of the most important magnitude\nto me.... Were it not for a very few of our kind, the very existence of\nmagnanimity, generosity, and all their kindred virtues, would be as much\na question with metaphysicians as the existence of witchcraft. Perhaps\nthe nature of man is not so much to blame for this, as the situation in\nwhich by some miscarriage or other he is placed in this world. The poor,\nnaked, helpless wretch, with such voracious appetites and such a famine\nof provision for them, is under a cursed necessity of turning selfish in\nhis own defence. Except a few instances of original scoundrelism,\nthorough-paced selfishness is always the work of time. Indeed, in a\nlittle time, we generally grow so attentive to ourselves and so\nregardless of others that I have often in poetic frenzy looked on this\nworld as one vast ocean, occupied and commoved by innumerable vortices,\neach whirling round its centre. These vortices are the children of men.\nThe great design and, if I may say so, merit of each particular vortex\nconsists in how widely it can extend the influence of its circle, and\nhow much floating trash it can suck in and absorb.\n\nI know not why I have got into this preaching vein, except it be to show\nyou that it is not my ignorance but my knowledge of mankind which makes\nme so much admire your goodness to me.\n\nI shall return your books very soon. I only wish to give Dr. Adam Smith\none other perusal, which I will do in one or two days.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 101: A collector in the Excise.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXIL--TO DAVID SILLAR, MERCHANT, IRVINE.[102]\n\nELLISLAND, 5 _Aug_. 1789.\n\nMy Dear Sir,--I was half in thoughts not to have written to you at all,\nby way of revenge for the two damn'd business letters you sent me. I\nwanted to know all about your publications--your news, your hopes,\nfears, etc., in commencing poet in print. In short, I wanted you to\nwrite to Robin like his old acquaintance Davie, and not in the style of\nMr. Tare to Mr. Tret, as thus:--\n\n\"Mr. Tret.--Sir,--This comes to advise you that fifteen barrels of\nherrings were, by the blessing of God, shipped safe on board the _Lovely\nJanet_, Q.D.C., Duncan Mac-Leerie, master, etc.\"\n\nI hear you have commenced married man--so much the better. I know not\nwhether the nine gipsies are jealous of my lucky, but they are a good\ndeal shyer since I could boast the important relation of husband.\n\nI have got about eleven subscribers for your book.... My best\ncompliments to Mrs. Sillar, and believe me to be, dear Davie,\never yours,\n\nROBT. BURNS.\n\n   [Footnote 102: This letter was first published in 1879. The original\n   is probably lost, but a copy is to be found in the minute-book of the\n   Irvine Burns Club. Sillar was \"Davie, a brother poet.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXIII.--TO MR. JOHN LOGAN, OF KNOCK SHINNOCK.\n\nELLISLAND, NEAR DUMFRIES, 7_th Aug_. 1789.\n\nDear Sir,--I intended to have written you long ere now, and, as I told\nyou, I had gotten three stanzas on my way in a poetic epistle to you;\nbut that old enemy of all _good works_, the Devil, threw me into a\nprosaic mire, and for the soul of me I cannot get out of it. I dare not\nwrite you a long letter, as I am going to intrude on your time with a\nlong ballad. I have, as you will shortly see, finished \"The Kirk's\nAlarm;\" but now that it is done, and that I have laughed once or twice\nat the conceits in some of the stanzas, I am determined not to let it\nget into the public; so I send you this copy, the first that I have sent\nto Ayrshire, except some few of the stanzas, which I wrote off in embryo\nfor Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision and request that you\nwill only read it to a few of us, and do not on any account give, or\npermit to be taken, any copy of the ballad. If I could be of any service\nto Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, though it should be at a much greater\nexpense than irritating a few bigoted priests, but I am afraid serving\nhim in his present _embarras_ is a task too hard for me. I have enemies\nenow, God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the number. Still, as I\nthink there is some merit in two or three of the thoughts, I send it to\nyou as a small, but sincere testimony how much, and with what respectful\nesteem, I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXIV.--TO MR. PETER STUART, EDITOR, LONDON.\n\n_End of Aug_. 1789.\n\nMy dear Sir,--The hurry of a farmer in this particular season, and the\nindolence of a poet at all seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for\nneglecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the 5th August.\n\n... When I received your letter I was transcribing for _The Star_ my\nletter to the magistrates of the Canongate of Edinburgh, begging their\npermission to place a tombstone over poor Fergusson. [102a] Poor\nFergusson! if there be a life beyond the grave, which I trust there is;\nand if there be a good God presiding over all nature, which I am sure\nthere is, thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world where\nworth of heart alone is distinction in the man; where riches, deprived\nof their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their native sordid\nmatter; where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of an idle\ndream; and where that heavy virtue, which is the negative consequence of\nsteady dulness, and those thoughtless though often destructive follies,\nwhich are the unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, will be\nthrown into equal oblivion as if they had never been!\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 102a: A young Scottish poet of undoubted ability who\n   perished miserably in Edinburgh at the age of twenty-four. He was the\n   senior of Burns, who greatly admired and mourned him, by about\n   eight years.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXV.--To HIS BROTHER, WILLIAM BURNS, SADDLER, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.\n\nELLISLAND, 14_th Aug_. 1789.\n\nMy Dear William,--I received your letter, and am very happy to hear that\nyou have got settled for the winter. I enclose you the two guinea-notes\nof the Bank of Scotland, which I hope will serve your need. It is,\nindeed, not quite so convenient for me to spare money as it once was,\nbut I know your situation, and, I will say it, in some respects your\nworth. I have no time to write at present, but I beg you will endeavour\nto pluck up a _little_ more of the Man than you used to have. Remember\nmy favourite quotations:\n\n             On reason build resolve,\n  That pillar of true majesty in man.[103]\n\nand\n\n  What proves the hero truly great,\n    Is never, never to despair![103a]\n\nYour mother and sisters desire their compliments. A Dieu je vous\ncommende,\n\nROBT. BURNS.\n\n   [Footnote 103: From Young.]\n\n   [Footnote 103a: From Thomson.]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXVL--TO MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, _6th Sept_. 1789.\n\nDear Madam,--I have mentioned, in my last, my appointment to the Excise,\nand the birth of little Frank; who, by the bye, I trust will be no\ndiscredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly\ncountenance, and a figure that might do credit to a liltle fellow two\nmonths older; and likewise an excellent good temper, though when he\npleases he has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn that his\nimmortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin of\nStirling bridge.\n\nI had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your\npoetess Miss. J. Little,[104] a very ingenious, but modest composition.\nI should have written her as she requested, but for the hurry of this\nnew business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this country;\nand I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact\nis, I knew not well how to write to her: I should sit down to a sheet of\npaper that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn\nletter-writing; and, except when prompted by friendship or gratitude,\nor, which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her\nname) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when\nnecessitated to write, as I would sit down to beat hemp.\n\nSome parts of your letter of the 2oth August struck me with the most\nmelancholy concern for the state of your mind at present.\n\nWould I could write you a letter of comfort, I would sit down to it with\nas much pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of my own composition\nthat should equal the _Iliad!_ Religion, my dear friend, is the true\ncomfort. A strong persuasion in a future state of existence; a\nproposition so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, every\nnation and people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least\nnear four thousand years, have, in some mode or other, firmly believed\nit. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so\nto a very daring pitch; but, when I reflected that I was opposing the\nmost ardent wishes and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in\nthe face of all human belief, in all ages, I was shocked at my\nown conduct.\n\nI know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines; or if you\nhave ever seen them; but it is one of my favourite quotations, which I\nkeep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of\nthe book of Job,\n\n  Against the day of battle and of war--\n\nspoken of religion:\n\n  'Tis _this_, my friend, that streaks our morning bright,\n  'Tis _this_ that gilds the horror of our night,\n  When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few;\n  When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;\n  Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,\n  Disarms affliction, or repels his dart;\n  Within the breast bids purest raptures rise,\n  Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.\n\nI have been busy with _Zeluco_. The Doctor is so obliging as to request\nmy opinion of it; and I have been revolving in my mind some kind of\ncriticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth beyond my research. I\nshall, however, digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I can.\n_Zeluco_ is a most sterling performance.\n\nFarewell! _A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous commende!_\n\n   [Footnote 104: A maid servant at Loudon house.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXVIL--To CAPTAIN RIDDEL, FRIARS CARSE.\n\nELLISLAND, _16th October_ 1789.\n\nSir,--Big with the idea of this important day at Friars Carse, I have\nwatched the elements and skies, in the full persuasion that they would\nannounce it to the astonished world by some phenomena of terrific\nportent. Yesternight until a very late hour, did I wait with anxious\nhorror for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky, or aerial\narmies of sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart the startled\nheavens, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those convulsions\nof nature that bury nations.\n\nThe elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly; they did\nnot even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of blood,\nsymbolical of the three potent heroes[105] and the mighty claret-shed of\nthe day. For me--as Thomson in his Winter says of the storm--I shall\n\"hear astonished, and astonished sing\"\n\n  The WHISTLE and the man I sing,\n    The man that won the whistle, etc.\n\nTo leave the heights of Parnassus and come to the humble vale of prose.\nI have some misgivings that I take too much upon me, when I request you\nto get your guest, Sir Robert Lawrie, to frank the two inclosed covers\nfor me, the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, Bart.,\nat Kilmarnock,--the other, to Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing-Master,\nEdinburgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as being a\nbrother Baronet, and likewise a keen Foxite; the other is one of the\nworthiest men in the world, and a man of real genius; so, allow me to\nsay, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked for to-morrow,\nas I cannot get them to the post to-night. I shall send a servant again\nfor them in the evening. Wishing that your head may be crowned with\nlaurels to-night, and free from aches to-morrow, I have the honour to\nbe, Sir, your deeply indebted humble Servant,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 105: Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwellton, the holder of the\n   Whistle, Alexander Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and Captain Riddel.\n   _See_ the Poem. Burns was apparently absent.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXVIII--To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, W.S.\n\nELLISLAND, 1_st Nov_. 1789.\n\nMy Dear Friend,--I had written you ere now, could I have guessed where\nto find you, for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the\nprecious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh.\nWherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but\ndeliver you from evil!\n\nI do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an\nExcise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this I\nwas extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as they call\ntheir journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all intents\nand purposes an officer of Excise; there to flourish and bring forth\nfruits--worthy of repentance.\n\nYou need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and disagreeable\ncircumstances in my business; but I am tired with and disgusted at the\nlanguage of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence in the\nmost favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and has its\ninconveniences and ills: capricious foolish man mistakes these\ninconveniences and ills as if they were the peculiar property of his\nparticular situation; and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of\nchange, which has ruined, and daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as\nwell as many a blockhead, and is almost, without exception, a constant\nsource of disappointment and misery.\n\nI long to hear from you how you go on-not so much in business as in\nlife. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, and\ntolerably at ease in your internal reflections? 'Tis much to be a great\ncharacter as a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to be a great\ncharacter as a man. That you may be both the one and the other is the\nearnest wish, and that you _will_ be both is the firm persuasion of, my\ndear Sir, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXXXIX.--To MR. RICHARD BROWN, PORT-GLASGOW.\n\nELLISLAND, _4th November_ 1789.\n\nI have been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that though I got both your\nletters, I have not been able to command an hour to answer them as I\nwished; and even now, you are to look on this as merely confessing debt,\nand craving days. Few things could have given me so much pleasure as the\nnews that you were once more safe and sound on terra firma, and happy in\nthat place where happiness is alone to be found, in the fireside circle.\nMay the benevolent Director of all things peculiarly bless you in all\nthose endearing connections consequent on the tender and venerable names\nof husband and father! I have indeed been extremely lucky in getting an\nadditional income of £50 a-year, while, at the same time, the\nappointment will not cost me above £10 or £12 per annum of expenses more\nthan I must have inevitably incurred. The worst circumstance is, that\nthe Excise division which I have got is so extensive, no less than ten\nparishes to ride over; and it abounds besides with so much business,\nthat I can scarcely steal a spare moment. However, labour endears rest,\nand both together are absolutely necessary for the proper enjoyment of\nhuman existence. I cannot meet you anywhere.\n\nNo less than an order from the Board of Excise, at Edinburgh, is\nnecessary before I can have so much time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But\ndo you come, and see me. We must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen\nit out with half the night, before you go again to sea. You are the\nearliest friend I now have on earth, my brothers excepted; and is not\nthat an endearing circumstance? When you and I first met, we were at the\ngreen period of human life. The twig would easily take a bent, but would\nas easily return to its former state. You and I not only took a mutual\nbent, but, by the melancholy, though strong influence of being both of\nthe family of the unfortunate, we were entwined with one another in our\ngrowth towards advanced age; and blasted be the sacrilegious hand that\nshall attempt to undo the union! You and I must have one bumper to my\nfavourite toast, \"May the companions of our youth be the friends of our\nold age!\" Come and see me one year; I shall see you at Port-Glasgow the\nnext, and if we can contrive to have a gossiping between our two\nbed-fellows, it will be so much additional pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me\nin kind compliments to you and Mrs. Brown. Adieu!--I am ever, my dear\nSir, yours,\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXL.--To MR. R. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY.\n\n_9th December_ 1789.\n\nSir,--I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and\nhad certainly done it long ere now, but for a humiliating something that\nthrows cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, \"You have\nfound Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that\ninterest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, you ought by\neverything in your power to keep alive and cherish.\" Now, though since\nGod has thought proper to make one powerful and another helpless, the\nconnection of obliger and obliged is all fair; and though my being under\nyour patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, Sir, allow me to flatter\nmyself that,--as a poet and an honest man you first interested yourself\nin my welfare, and principally as such still, you permit me to\napproach you.\n\nI have found the Excise business go on a great deal smoother with me\nthan I expected; owing a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr.\nMitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, my\nsupervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my\nhurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. Their\nvisits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, like\nthe visits of good angels, are short and far between; but I meet them\nnow and then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to\ndo on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a few\nbagatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure thoughts in my\nexcise rides.\n\nIf you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you will\nenter into any humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have\nseen them before, as I sent them to a London newspaper. Though, I dare\nsay, you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which shone\nso conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I\nthink you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr,\nand his heretical book. God help him, poor man! Though he is one of the\nworthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the\nKirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor\nDoctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown\nout to the mercy of the winter-winds. The inclosed ballad on that\nbusiness is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself at some conceits\nin it, though I am convinced in my conscience that there are a good many\nheavy stanzas in it too.[106]\n\nThe election ballad,[107] as you will see, alludes to the present\ncanvass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a\nhard run match in the whole general election.\n\nI am too little a man to have any political attachments; I am deeply\nindebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both\nparties; but a man[108] who has it in his power to be the father of a\ncountry, and who is only known to that country by the mischiefs he does\nin it, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience.\n\nSir J. J. does \"what man can do,\" but yet I doubt his fate.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 106: The Kirk's Alarm.]\n\n   [Footnote 107: _The Five Carlines._]\n\n   [Footnote 108: Duke of Queensbury.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLL--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, _13th December_ 1789.\n\nMany thanks, dear Madam, for your sheetful of rhymes. Though at present\nI am below the veriest prose, yet from you everything pleases. I am\ngroaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous system; a system, the\nstate of which is most conducive to our happiness--or the most\nproductive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill\nwith a nervous headache, that I have been obliged for a time to give up\nmy excise-books, being scare able to lift my head, much less to ride\nonce a week over ten muir parishes. What is man? To-day, in the\nluxuriance of health, exulting in the enjoyment of existence; in a few\ndays, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being,\ncounting the tardy pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions of\nanguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. Day follows night, and\nnight comes after day, only to curse him with life which gives him no\npleasure; and yet the awful, dark termination of that life, is something\nat which he recoils.\n\n  Tell us, ye dead; will none of you in pity\n  Disclose the secret\n  _What'tis you are, and we must shortly be?_\n    'Tis no matter:\n  A little time will make us learn'd as you are.\n\nCan it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish being, I\nshall still find myself in conscious existence? When the last gasp of\nagony has announced that I am no more to those that knew me, and the few\nwho loved me; when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is\nresigned into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to\nbecome in time a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and\nseen, enjoying and enjoyed? Ye venerable sages, and holy flamens, is\nthere probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories, of another\nworld beyond death; or are they all alike, baseless visions, and\nfabricated fables? If there is another life, it must be only for the\njust, the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane; what a flattering\nidea, then, is a world to come! Would to God I as firmly believed it, as\nI ardently wish it! There I should meet an aged parent, now at rest from\nthe many buffetings of an evil world, against which he so long and so\nbravely struggled. There should I meet the friend, the disinterested\nfriend of my early life; the man who rejoiced to see me, because he\nloved me and could serve me. Muir, thy weaknesses were the aberrations\nof human nature, but thy heart glowed with everything generous, manly,\nand noble; and if ever emanation from the All-good Being animated a\nhuman form, it was thine! There should I, with speechless agony of\nrapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear Mary! whose bosom was\nfraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love.\n\n  My Mary, dear departed shade!\n    Where is thy place of heavenly rest?\n  Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?\n    Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?\n\nJesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters! I trust thou art no\nimpostor, and that thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence beyond\ndeath and the grave, is not one of the many impositions which time after\ntime have been palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in thee \"shall\nall the families of the earth be blessed,\" by being yet connected\ntogether in a better world, where every tie that bound heart to heart,\nin this state of existence, shall be, far beyond our present\nconceptions, more endearing.\n\nI am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that what\nare called nervous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot\nreason, I cannot think; and but to you I would not venture to write\nanything above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills\nof life not to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who has impaired more\nthan half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this\ndistracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, and which he\nwould throw into the fire, were he able to write anything better, or\nindeed anything at all.\n\nRumour told me something of a son of yours, who was returned from the\nEast or West Indies. If you have gotten news from James or Anthony, it\nwas cruel in you not to let me know; as I promise you, on the sincerity\nof a man, who is weary of one world, and anxious about another, that\nscarce anything could give me so much pleasure as to hear of any good\nthing befalling my honoured friend.\n\nIf you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to LE PAUVRE\nMISERABLE.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLII.--To LADY WINIFRED M. CONSTABLE.\n\nELLISLAND, 16th DECEMBER 1789.\n\nMy Lady,--In vain have I from day to day expected to hear from Mis.\nYoung, as she promised me at Dalswinton that she would do me the honour\nto introduce me at Tinwald; and it was impossible, not from your\nLadyship's accessibility, but from my own feelings, that I could go\nalone. Lately, indeed, Mr. Maxwell, of Currachan, in his usual goodness,\noffered to accompany me, when an unlucky indisposition on my part\nhindered my embracing the opportunity. To court the notice or the tables\nof the great, except where I sometimes have had a little matter to ask\nof them, or more often the pleasanter task of witnessing my gratitude to\nthem, is what I never have done, and I trust never shall do. But with\nyour Ladyship I have the honour to be connected by one of the strongest\nand most endearing ties in the whole moral world. Common sufferings, in\na cause where even to be unfortunate is glorious--the cause of heroic\nloyalty! Though my fathers had not illustrious honours and vast\nproperties to hazard in the contest, though they left their humble\ncottages only to add so many units more to the unnoted crowd that\nfollowed their leaders, yet what they could they did, and what they had\nthey lost; with unshaken firmness and unconcealed political attachments,\nthey shook hands with Ruin for what they esteemed the cause of their\nking and their country. This language and the inclosed verses are for\nyour Ladyship's eye alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence;\nbut as I can do nothing for a cause which is now nearly no more, I do\nnot wish to hurt myself.--I have the honour to be, my lady, your\nLadyship's obliged and obedient humble servant.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLIII.--To MR. CHARLES K. SHARPE, OF HODDAM.\n\n_Under a fictitious Signature, inclosing a Ballad, 1790 or 1791._[109]\n\nIt is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and I am a\npoor devil; you are a feather in the cap of society, and I am a very\nhobnail in his shoes; yet I have the honour to belong to the same family\nwith you, and on that score I now address you. You will perhaps suspect\nthat I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and honourable house\nof Kirkpatrick. No, no, Sir. I cannot indeed be properly said to belong\nto any house, or even any province or kingdom; as my mother, who for\nmany years was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad\nworld, aboard the packet-boat, somewhere between Donaghadee and\nPortpatrick. By our common family, I mean, Sir, the family of the Muses.\nI am a fiddler and a poet; and you, I am told, play an exquisite violin,\nand have a standard taste in the belles lettres. The other day, a\nbrother catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your composition. If I\nwas pleased with the tune, I was in raptures with the title you have\ngiven it, and, taking up the idea, I have spun it into the three stanzas\ninclosed. Will you allow me, Sir, to present you them, as the dearest\noffering that a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give? I have\na longing to take you by the hand and unburden my heart by saying, \"Sir,\nI honour you as a man who supports the dignity of human nature, amid an\nage when frivolity and avarice have, between them, debased us below the\nbrutes that perish!\" But, alas, Sir! to me you are unapproachable. It is\ntrue, the Muses baptised me in Castalian streams; but the thoughtless\ngipsies forgot to give me a name. As the sex have served many a good\nfellow, the Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure; but, bewitching\njades! they have beggared me. Would they but spare me a little of their\ncast-linen! Were it only to put it in my power to say, that I have a\nshirt on my back! But the idle wenches, like Solomon's lilies, \"they\ntoil not, neither do they spin;\" so I must e'en continue to tie my\nremnant of a cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my naked throat, and\ncoax my galligaskins to keep together their many-coloured fragments. As\nto the affair of shoes, I have given that up. My pilgrimages in my\nballad-trade, from town to town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes\ntoo, are not what even the hide of Job's behemoth could bear. The coat\non my back is no more: I shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be\nequally unhandsome and ungrateful to find fault with my old surtout,\nwhich so kindly supplies and conceals the want of that coat. My hat,\nindeed, is a great favourite; and though I got it literally for an old\nsong, I would not exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I was,\nduring several years, a kind of fac-totum servant to a country\nclergyman, where I picked up a good many scraps of learning,\nparticularly--in some branches of the mathematics. Whenever I feel\ninclined to rest myself on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, laying\nmy poetic wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and\nplacing my hat between my legs, I can by means of its brim, or rather\nbrims, go through the whole doctrine of the Conic Sections. However,\nSir, don't let me mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. Fortune\nhas so much forsaken me, that she has taught me to live without her;\nand, amid all my rags and poverty, I am as independent, and much more\nhappy than a monarch of the world. According to the hackneyed metaphor,\nI value the several actors in the great drama of life, simply as they\nact their parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of a duke with\nunqualified contempt, and can regard an honest scavenger with sincere\nrespect. As you, Sir, go through your role with such distinguished\nmerit, permit me to make one in the chorus of universal applause, and\nassure you that with the highest respect, I have the honour to be, etc.\n\n   [Footnote 109: \"Here Burns plays high Jacobite to that singular old\n   curmudgeon, Lady Constable. I imagine his Jacobitism, like my own,\n   belonged to the fancy rather than the reason.\"--Scott.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLIV.--To HIS BROTHER, GILBERT BURNS, MOSSGIEL.\n\nELLISLAND, _11th January 1790_.\n\nDear Brother,--I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have not\nin my present frame of mind much appetite for exertion in writing. My\nnerves are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading\nevery atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of\nmyself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it go to hell! I'll\nfight it out and be off with it.\n\nWe have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. I have seen\nthem an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the\nmanager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent\nworth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following prologue, which\nhe spouted to his audience with applause:--\n\n  No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, etc.\n\nI can no more. If once I was clear of this curst farm, I should respire\nmore at ease.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLV.--To MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S.\n\nELLISLAND, 14th Jan. 1790.\n\nSince we are here creatures of a day, since \"a few summer days, a few\nwinter nights, and the life of man is at an end,\" why, my dear much\nesteemed Sir, should you and I let negligent indolence, for I know it is\nnothing worse, step in between us and bar the enjoyment of a mutual\ncorrespondence? We are not shapen out of the common, heavy, methodical\nclod, the elemental stuff of the plodding selfish race, the sons of\nArithmetic and Prudence; our feelings and hearts are not benumbed and\npoisoned by the cursed influence of riches, which, whatever blessing\nthey may be in other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of\nthe heart; in the name of random sensibility, then, let never the moon\nchange on our silence any more. I have had a tract of bad health the\nmost part of this winter, else you had heard from me long ere now. Thank\nheaven, I am now got so much better as to be able to partake a little in\nthe enjoyments of life.\n\nOur friend, Cunningham, will perhaps have told you of my going into the\nExcise. The truth is, I found it a very convenient business to have £50\nper annum, nor have I yet felt any of these mortifying circumstances in\nit that I was led to fear.\n\n_Feb. 2nd._--I have not for sheer hurry of business been able to spare\nfive minutes to finish my letter. Besides my farm business, I ride on my\nExcise matters at least two hundred miles every week. I have not by any\nmeans given up the Muses. You will see in the third volume of Johnson's\nScots songs that I have contributed my mite there.\n\nBut, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to you for paternal\nprotection are an important charge. I have already two fine healthy\nstout little fellows, and I wish to throw some light upon them. I have a\nthousand reveries and schemes about them, and their future destiny. Not\nthat I am an Utopian projector in these things. I am resolved never to\nbreed up a son of mine to any of the learned professions. I know the\nvalue of independence; and since I cannot give my sons an independent\nfortune, I shall give them an independent line of life. What a chaos of\nhurry, chance, and changes is this world, when one sits soberly down to\nreflect on it! To a father, who himself knows the world, the thought\nthat he shall have sons to usher into it, must fill him with dread; but\nif he have daughters, the prospect in a thoughtful moment is apt to\nshock him.\n\nI hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let me forget\nthat they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I never saw a more\ninteresting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I am the fool of my\nfeelings and attachments. I often take up a volume of my Spenser to\nrealise you to my imagination, [109a] and think over the social scenes\nwe have had together. God grant that there may be another world more\ncongenial for honest fellows beyond this; a world where these rubs and\nplagues of absence, distance, misfortunes, ill-health, etc., shall no\nmore damp hilarity and divide friendship. This I know is your throng\nseason, but half a page will much oblige, my dear Sir, yours sincerely,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 109a: Mr. Dunbar had made him a present of a Spenser's\n   Poems.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLVL.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, _25th January 1790._\n\nIt has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not\nwritten to you, Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, and I\nnow begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest\nof my fellow-creatures.\n\nMany thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters; but why\nwill you make me run the risk of being contemptible and mercenary in my\nown eyes? When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is\nneither poetic licence, nor poetic rant; and I am so flattered with the\nhonour you have done me in making me your compeer in friendship and\nfriendly correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree of\nmortification, be reminded of the real inequality between our\nsituations.\n\nMost sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news of\nAnthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for\nsuch a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the little I had of\nhis acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes.\n\nFalconer, the unfortunate author of the \"Shipwreck,\" which you so much\nadmire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so\nfeelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales of\nfortune, he went to the bottom with the _Aurora_ frigate!\n\nI forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth; but\nhe was the son of obscurity and mis'ortune.[110] He was one of those\ndaring, adventurous spirits, which Scotland, beyond any other country,\nis remarkable for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she\nhangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the poor\nfellow may hereafter wander, or what may be his fate. I remember a\nstanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude\nsimplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart:--\n\n  Little did my mother think,\n    That day she cradled me,\n  What land I was to travel in,\n    Or what death I should dee!\n\nOld Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine,\nand now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of\nanother old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The\ncatastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate,\nShe concludes with this pathetic wish:--\n\n  O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd;\n    O that my mother had ne'er to me sung!\n  O that my cradle had never been rock'd;\n    But that I had died when I was young!\n\n  O that the grave it were my bed;\n    My blankets were my winding sheet;\n  The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a';\n    And O sad sound as I should sleep!\n\nI do not remember in all my reading to have met with anything more truly\nthe language of misery than the exclamation in the last line. Misery is\nlike love; to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it.\n\nI am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson the\nsmall-pox. They are _rife_ in the country, and I tremble for his fate.\nBy the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit.\nEvery person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest\nchild he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of\nhis little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his\nhead, and the glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted\ngallantry of an independent mind.\n\nI thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise you\npoetry until you are tired of it, next time I have the honour of\nassuring you how truly I am, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 110: He was of poor parentage, and a native of Edinburgh.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLVII.--To MR. PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, _2nd Feb. 1790._\n\nNo! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not\nwriting--I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at least 200\nmiles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where\ncan I find time to write to, or importance to interest anybody? The\nupbraidings of my conscience, nay, the upbraidings of my wife, have\npersecuted me on your account these two or three months past. I wish to\nGod I was a great man, that my correspondence might throw light upon\nyou, to let the world see what you really are: and then I would make\nyour fortune, without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like\nall other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible. What\nare you doing, and how are you doing? Have you lately seen any of my few\nfriends? What has become of the borough reform, or how is the fate of my\npoor namesake Mademoiselle Burns decided? O man! but for thee and thy\nselfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, that beauteous form, and\nthat once innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have shone\nconspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the affectionate\nmother; and shall the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have no\nclaim on thy humanity!\n\nI saw lately, in a review, some extracts from a new poem, called the\n\"Village Curate;\" send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of _The\nWorld_. Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to mention\nme so kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the copy\nof his book.[111]--I shall write him, my first leisure hour. I like his\npoetry much, but I think his style in prose quite astonishing.\n\nYour book came safe, and I am going to trouble you with farther\ncommissions. I call it troubling you, because I want only books; the\ncheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt for them in the evening\nauctions. I want Smollett's Works, for the sake of his incomparable\nhumour. I have already _Roderick Random_ and _Humphrey Clinker_;\n--_Peregrine Pickle_, _Launcelot Greaves_, and _Ferdinand_, _Count\nFathom_, I still want; but, as I said, the veriest ordinary copies will\nserve me. I am nice only in the appearance of my poets. I forget the\nprice of Cowper's _Poems_, but, I believe, I must have them. I saw the\nother day, proposals for a publication, entitled _Banks's New and\nComplete Christian Family Bible_, printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster Row,\nLondon. He promises at least to give in the work, I think it is three\nhundred and odd engravings, to which he has put the names of the first\nartists in London. You will know the character of the performance, as\nsome numbers of it are published, and if it is really what it pretends\nto be, set me down as a subscriber, and send me the published numbers.\n\nLet me hear from you, your first leisure minute, and trust me, you shall\nin future have no reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling\nperplexity of novelty will dissipate, and leave me to pursue my course\nin the quiet path of methodical routine.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 111: John Armstrong, student in the University of\n   Edinburgh, who had recently published a volume of Juvenile Poems.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLVIIL.--To MR. W. NICOL.\n\nELLISLAND, _Feb. 9th, 1790._\n\nMy Dear Sir,--That damn'd mare of yours is dead. I would freely have\ngiven her price to have saved her; she has vexed me beyond description.\nIndebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can ever repay, I\neagerly grasped at your offer to have the mare with me. That I might at\nleast show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I took every care of\nher in my power. She was never crossed for riding above half a score of\ntimes by me or in my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of three,\nfor one poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was the\nhighest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her in fine\norder for Dumfries fair, when, four or five days before the fair, she\nwas seized with an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, or somewhere in\nthe bones of the neck--with a weakness or total want of power in her\nfillets; and, in short, the whole vertebrae of her spine seemed to be\ndiseased and unhinged, and in eight and forty hours, in spite of the two\nbest farriers in the country, she died and be damn'd to her! The\nfarriers said that she had been quite strained in the fillets beyond\ncure before you had bought her; and that the poor devil, though she\nmight keep a little flesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with\nfatigue and oppression. While she was with me she was under my own eye,\nand I assure you, my much valued friend, everything was done for her\nthat could be done; and the accident has vexed me to the heart. In fact,\nI could not pluck up spirits to write to you, on account of the\nunfortunate business.\n\nThere is little new in this country. Our theatrical company, of which\nyou must have heard, leave us this week. Their merit and character are\nindeed very great, both on the stage and in private life; not a\nworthless creature among them; and their encouragement has been\naccordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds a\nnight; seldom less than the one, and the house will hold no more than\nthe other. There have been repeated instances of sending away six, and\neight, and ten pounds a night for want of room. A new theatre is to be\nbuilt by subscription; the first stone is to be laid on Friday first to\ncome. Three hundred guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, and\nthirty more might have been got if wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland,\nwas introduced to me by a friend from Ayr; and a worthier or cleverer\nfellow I have rarely met with. Some of our clergy have slipt in by\nstealth now and then; but they have got up a farce of their own. You\nmust have heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the\nRev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have\naccused, in formal process, the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of\nKirkgunzeon, that in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in\nKirkbean, he, the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably bound the said\nNielson to the confession of faith, _so far as it was agreeable to\nreason and the word of God!_\n\nMrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. Little Bobby and\nFrank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to death with fatigue.\nFor these two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden less\nthan two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic way. I\nhave given Mr. Sutherland two Prologues, one of which was delivered last\nweek. I have likewise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune\nof Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning\n(the name she got here was Peg Nicholson),--\n\n  Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,\n    As ever trod on airn;\n  But now she's floating down the Nith,\n    And past the mouth o' Cairn.\n\nMy best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the family;\nI hope Ned is a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts and\napples with me next harvest.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXLIX.--To MR. CUNNINGHAM, WRITER, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, _13th February 1790._\n\nI beg your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to you on\nthis very unfashionable, unsightly sheet--\n\n  My poverty but not my will consents.\n\nBut to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except one poor\nwidowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer, among my plebeian\nfoolscap pages, like the widow of a man of fashion, whom that unpolite\nscoundrel, Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pineapple to a dish\nof Bohea, with the scandal-bearing help-mate of a village-priest; or a\nglass of whisky-toddy with a ruby-nosed yokefellow of a foot-padding\nexciseman--I make a vow to inclose this sheet-full of epistolary\nfragments in that my only scrap of gilt paper.\n\nI am, indeed, your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I ought\nto have written to you long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have\nscarcely a spare moment. It is not that I _will not_ write to you: Miss\nBurnet is not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke of\nQueensberry to the powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham to me.\nIt is not that I cannot write to you; should you doubt it, take the\nfollowing fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, and be\nconvinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute periods, as\nwell as any coiner of phrase in the regions of philology.\n\n_December 1789._\n\nMy Dear Cunningham,--Where are you? And what are you doing? Can you be\nthat son of levity, who takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion;\nor are you, like some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the\nvictim of indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight?\n\nWhat strange beings we are! Since we have a portion of conscious\nexistence, equally capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture,\nor of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of\nan inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as a science of life;\nwhether method, economy, and fertility of expedients, be not applicable\nto enjoyment; and whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure,\nwhich renders our little scantling of happiness still less; and a\nprofuseness, an intoxication in bliss, which leads to satiety, disgust,\nand self-abhorrence. There is not a doubt but that health, talents,\ncharacter, decent competency, respectable friends, are real substantial\nblessings; and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of\nthese good things, contrive, notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others\nto whose lot few of them have fallen? I believe one great source of this\nmistake or misconduct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called\nambition, which goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend other\neminences; for the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended landscape,\nbut rather for the dishonest pride of looking down on others of our\nfellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in humbler stations, etc., etc.\n\n_Sunday, 14th February 1790._\n\nGod help me! I am now obliged to join\n\n  Night to day, and Sunday to the week.\n\nIf there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am\ndamn'd past redemption, and what is worse, damn'd to all eternity. I am\ndeeply read in Boston's _Four-fold State_, Marshal _On Sanctification_,\nGuthrie's _Trial of a Saving Interest_, etc., but \"there is no balm in\nGilead, there is no physician there,\" for me; so I shall e'en turn\nArminian, and trust to \"Sincere though imperfect obedience.\"\n\n_Tuesday, 16th._\n\nLuckily for me, I was prevented from the discussion of the knotty point\nat which I had just made a full stop. All my fears and cares are of this\nworld; if there is another, an honest man has nothing to fear from it. I\nhate a man that wishes to be a deist; but I fear, every fair,\nunprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a sceptic. It is not that\nthere are any very staggering arguments against the immortality of man;\nbut, like electricity, phlogiston, etc., the subject is so involved in\ndarkness, that we want data to go upon. One thing frightens me much:\nthat we are to live for ever seems _too good news to be true_. That we\nare to enter into a new scene of existence, where, exempt from want and\npain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends without satiety or\nseparation--how much should I be indebted to any one who could fully\nassure me that this was certain!\n\nMy time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God\nbless him and all his concerns! And may all the powers that preside over\nconviviality and friendship, be present with all their kindest\ninfluence, when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet! I wish I\ncould also make one.\n\nFinally, brethren, farewell! Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever\nthings are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever things\nare kind, think on these things, and think on\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCL.--To MR. HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, _2nd March 1790._\n\nAt a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Society, it was resolved to\naugment their library by the following books, which you are to send us\nas soon as possible:--_The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of\nthe World,_ (these, for my own sake, I wish to have by the first\ncarrier), Knox's _History of the Reformation_, Rae's _History of the\nRebellion in 1715_, any good History of the Rebellion in 1745, _A\nDisplay of the Secession Act and Testimony_, by Mr. Gib, Hervey's\n_Meditations_, Beveridge's _Thoughts_, and another copy of Watson's\n_Body of Divinity_.\n\nI wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four months ago, to pay some money\nhe owed me into your hands, and lately I wrote to you to the same\npurpose, but I have heard from neither one nor other of you.\n\nIn addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want very much, an\nIndex to the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the statutes now in\nforce, relative to the Excise, by Jellinger Symons; I want three copies\nof this book: if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. An\nhonest country neighbour of mine wants too a Family Bible, the larger\nthe better, but second-handed, for he does not choose to give above ten\nshillings for the book. I want likewise for myself, as you can pick them\nup, second-handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben\nJonson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's, Gibber's, or\nany Dramatic Works of the more modern Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Colman,\nor Sheridan. A good copy too of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any\nother good dramatic authors in that language I want also; but comic\nauthors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and\nVoltaire too. I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but if you\naccidentally meet with them very-cheap, get them for me.\n\nAnd now, to quit the dry walk of business, how do you do, my dear\nfriend? and how is Mrs. Hill? I trust, if now and then not so\n_elegantly_ handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as\never. My good wife too has a charming \"wood-note wild;\" now could we\nfour get together, etc.\n\nI am out of all patience with this vile world, for one thing. Mankind\nare by nature benevolent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly\ninstances. I do not think that avarice of the good things we chance to\nhave, is born with us; but we are placed here amid so much nakedness,\nand hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity\nof studying selfishness, in order that we may exist! Still there are, in\nevery age, a few souls that all the wants and woes of life cannot debase\nto selfishness, or even to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence.\nIf ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on\nthis side of my disposition and character. God knows I am no saint; I\nhave a whole host of follies and sins to answer for; but if I could--and\nI believe I do it as far as I can--I would wipe away all tears from all\neyes. Adieu!\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLI.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, _10th April 1790._\n\nI have just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a very high luxury, in\nreading a paper of the _Lounger_. You know my national prejudices. I had\noften read and admired the _Spectator_, _Adventurer_, _Rambler_, and\n_World_, but still with a certain regret, that they were so thoroughly\nand entirely English. Alas! have I often said to myself, what are all\nthe boasted advantages which my country reaps from the Union, that can\ncounterbalance the annihilation of her independence, and even her very\nname? I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, Goldsmith--\n\n    States of native liberty possest,\n  Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest.\n\nNothing can reconcile me to the common terms, \"English ambassador,\"\n\"English court,\" etc., and I am out of all patience to see that\nequivocal character, Hastings, impeached by \"the Commons of England.\"\nTell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in my conscience\nsuch ideas as \"my country; her independence; her honour; the illustrious\nnames that mark the history of my native land,\" etc.--I believe these,\namong your _men of the world_, men who, in fact, guide for the most part\nand govern our world, are looked on as so many modifications of\nwrong-headedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse\nor lead THE RABBLE; but for their own private use, with almost all the\n_able statesmen_ that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of\nright and wrong they only mean proper and improper; and their measure of\nconduct is, not what they ought, but what they dare. For the truth of\nthis I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to one of\nthe ablest judges of men that ever lived--the celebrated Earl of\nChesterfield. In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his vices\nwhenever they interfered with his interests, and who could completely\nput on the appearance of every virtue as often as it suited his\npurposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the _perfect man_; a man to lead\nnations. But are great abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished\nwithout a blemish, the standard of human excellence? This is certainly\nthe staunch opinion of _men of the world_; but I call on honour, virtue,\nand worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a loud negative! However, this\nmust be allowed, that, if you abstract from man the idea of an existence\nbeyond the grave, _then_, the true measure of human conduct is, _proper_\nand _improper_: virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are, in\nthat case, of scarcely the same import and value to the world at large,\nas harmony and discord in the modifications of sound; and a delicate\nsense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may sometimes give\nthe possessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet,\nconsidering the harsh gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned\nstate of being, it is odds but the individual would be as happy, and\ncertainly would be as much respected by the true judges of society as it\nwould then stand, without either a good ear or a good heart.\n\nYou must know I have just met with the _Mirror_ and _Lounger_ for the\nfirst time, and I am quite in raptures with them; I should be glad to\nhave your opinion of some of the papers. The one I have just read,\n_Lounger_, No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than anything I have\nread for a long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the\nScots, and in my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison.\nIf he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes him in\nthe tender and the pathetic. His _Man of Feeling_ (but I am not counsel\nlearned in the laws of criticism) I estimate as the first performance in\nits kind I ever saw. From what book, moral or even pious, will the\nsusceptible young mind receive impressions more congenial to humanity\nand kindness, generosity and benevolence; in short, more of all that\nennobles the soul to herself, or endears her to others--than from the\nsimple affecting tale of poor Harley?\n\nStill, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's writings, I do not know if\nthey are the fittest reading for a young man who is about to set out, as\nthe phrase is, to make his way into life. Do you not think, Madam, that\namong the few favoured of Heaven in the structure of their minds (for\nsuch there certainly are) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a\ndignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree,\nabsolutely disqualifying for the truly important business of making a\nman's way into life? If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend,\nAntony, is very much under these disqualifications; and for the young\nfemales of a family I could mention, well may they excite parental\nsolicitude; for I, a common acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it,\nan humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind which may\nrender them eminently happy--or peculiarly miserable!\n\nI have been manufacturing some verses lately; but as I have got the most\nhurried season of Excise business over, I hope to have more leisure to\ntranscribe any thing that may show how much I have the honour to be,\nMadam, yours, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *        *\n\nCLII.--To DR. JOHN MOORE, LONDON.\n\nDUMFRIES, _Excise-Office, 14th July 1790._\n\nSir,--Coming into town this morning to attend my duty in this office, it\nbeing collection-day, I met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his\nway to London; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking\nis at present under a temporary death. I shall have some snatches of\nleisure through the day, amid our horrid business and bustle, and I\nshall improve them as well as I can; but let my letter be as stupid\nas..., as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry\ngrace-before-meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause; as\nill spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as\nBetty Byre-Mucker's answer to it; I hope, considering circumstances, you\nwill forgive it; and as it will put you to no expense of postage, I\nshall have the less reflection about it.\n\nI am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your most\nvaluable present, _Zeluco_. In fact, you are in some degree blameable\nfor my neglect. You were pleased to express a wish for my opinion of the\nwork, which so flattered me, that nothing less would serve my\nover-weening fancy, than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I have\ngravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and\nSmollett, in your different qualities and merits as novel-writers. This,\nI own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never bring the\nbusiness to bear; but I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in the\nbook of Job--\"And I said, I will also declare my opinion.\" I have quite\ndisfigured my copy of the book with my annotations. I never take it up\nwithout at the same time taking my pencil, and marking with asterisms,\nparentheses, etc., wherever I meet with an original thought, a nervous\nremark on life and manners, a remarkably well-turned period, or a\ncharacter sketched with uncommon precision.\n\nThough I should hardly think of fairly writing out my \"Comparative\nView,\" I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they are.\n\nI have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the Book\nof Revelation--\"that time shall be no more.\"\n\nThe little collection of sonnets have some charming poetry in them. If\n_indeed_ I am indebted to the fair author for the book, and not, as I\nrather suspect, to a celebrated author of the other sex, I should\ncertainly have written to the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments,\nand my own idea of the comparative excellence of her pieces.[112] I\nwould do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my remarks\ncould be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own\nfeelings as an author, doing as I would be done by.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 112: Sonnets of Charlotte Smith.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLIII.--To MR. MURDOCH,[113] TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON.\n\nELLISLAND, _July_ 16_th_, 1790.\n\nMy Dear Sir,--I received a letter from you a long time ago, but\nunfortunately, as it was in the time of my peregrinations and\njourneyings through Scotland, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence\nyour direction along with it. Luckily my good star brought me acquainted\nwith Mr. Kennedy, who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours: and by\nhis means and mediation I hope to replace that link, which my\nunfortunate negligence had so unluckily broke, in the chain of our\ncorrespondence. I was the more vexed at the vile accident, as my brother\nWilliam, a journeyman saddler, has been for some time in London; and\nwished above all things for your direction, that he might have paid his\nrespects to his father's friend.\n\nHis last address he sent me was, \"Wm. Burns, at Mr. Barber's, saddler,\nNo. 181 Strand.\" I writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask him for\nyour address; so, if you find a spare half minute, please let my brother\nknow by a card where and when he will find you, and the poor fellow will\njoyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving friends of the man\nwhose name, and Christian name too, he has the honour to bear.\n\nThe next letter I write you shall be a long one. I have much to tell you\nof \"hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach,\" with all the\neventful history of a life, the early years of which owed so much to\nyour kind tutorage; but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest\ncompliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family.--I am ever, my dear Sir, your\nobliged friend,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 113: He had been Burns's schoolmaster at Mount Oliphant.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLIV.--To MR. CUNNINGHAM.\n\nELLISLAND, _8th August 1790._\n\nForgive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negligence.\nYou cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I lead.\n\nI laid down my goose feather to beat my brains for an apt simile, and\nhad some thoughts of a country grannum at a family christening; a bride\non the market-day before her marriage; or a tavern-keeper at an election\ndinner; but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard\nmiscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking,\nsearching, whom he may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if I\nchoose (and who would not choose) to bind down with the crampets of\nattention the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the\nsuperstructure of Independence, and from its daring turrets bid defiance\nto the storms of fate. And is not this a \"consummation devoutly to\nbe wished?\"\n\n  Thy spirit, Independence, let me share;\n    Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye!\n  Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,\n    Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky!\n\nAre not these noble verses? They are the introduction of Smollett's Ode\nto Independence: if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to you.\nHow wretched is the man that hangs on by the favours of the great! To\nshrink from every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly piece of\nself-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur,\nis but a creature formed as thou art--and perhaps not so well formed as\nthou art--came into the world a puling infant as thou didst, and must go\nout of it as all men must, a naked corse...\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLV.--To MR. CRAUFORD TAIT,[114] W.S., EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, 15th _October_ 1790.\n\nDear Sir,--Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance the bearer, Mr.\nWm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I have long known and long loved. His\nfather, whose only son he is, has a decent little property in Ayrshire,\nand has bred the young man to the law, in which department he comes up\nan adventurer to your good town. I shall give you my friend's character\nin two words: as to his head, he has talents enough, and more than\nenough for common life; as to his heart, when nature had kneaded the\nkindly clay that composes it, she said, \"I can no more.\"\n\nYou, my good Sir, were born under kinder stars; but your fraternal\nsympathy, I well know, can enter into the feelings of the young man who\ngoes into life with the laudable ambition to do something, and to be\nsomething among his fellow-creatures; but whom the consciousness of\nfriendless obscurity presses to the earth and wounds to the soul!\n\nEven the fairest of his virtues are against him. That independent\nspirit, and that ingenuous modesty, qualities inseparable from a noble\nmind, are, with the million, circumstances not a little disqualifying.\nWhat pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and the happy, by their\nnotice and patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the heart of\nsuch depressed youth! I am not so angry with mankind for their deaf\neconomy of the purse--the goods of this world cannot be divided without\nbeing lessened--but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a\nfellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our own means of enjoyment? We\nwrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own better fortune, and turn away\nour eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother-mortals should disturb\nthe selfish apathy of our souls!\n\nI am the worst hand in the world at asking a favour. That indirect\naddress, that insinuating implication, which, without any positive\nrequest, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to be acquired at\na plough-tail. Tell me, then, for you can, in what periphrasis of\nlanguage, in what circumvolution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet not\nconceal, the plain story. \"My dear Mr, Tait, my friend, Mr. Duncan, whom\nI have the pleasure of introducing to you, is a young lad of your own\nprofession, and a gentleman of much modesty and great worth. Perhaps it\nmay be in your power to assist him in the, to him, important\nconsideration of getting a place; but, at all events, your notice and\nacquaintance will be a very great acquisition to him; and I dare pledge\nmyself that he will never disgrace your favour.\"\n\nYou may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such a letter from me; 'tis, I\nown, in the usual way of calculating these matters, more than our\nacquaintance entitles me to; but my answer is short: Of all the men at\nyour time of life whom I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most accessible\non the side on which I have assailed you. You are very much altered\nindeed from what you were when I knew you, if generosity point the path\nyou will not tread, or humanity call to you in vain.\n\nAs to myself, a being to whose interest I believe you are still a\nwell-wisher; I am here, breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and\nrhyming now and then. Every situation has its share of the cares and\npains of life, and my situation I am persuaded has a full ordinary\nallowance of its pleasures and enjoyments.\n\nMy best compliments to your father and Miss Tait. If you have an\nopportunity, please remember me in the solemn league and covenant of\nfriendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay.[115] I am a wretch for not writing her;\nbut I am so hackneyed with self-accusation in that way, that my\nconscience lies in my bosom with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in\nits shell. Where is Lady M'Kenzie? wherever she is, God bless her! I\nlikewise beg leave to trouble you with compliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton;\nMrs. Hamilton and family; and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that\ncountry. Should you meet with Miss Nimmo, please remember me kindly\nto her.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 114: Son of Mr. Tait of Harviestoun, where Burns was a\n   happy guest in the Autumn of 1787. He was also father of the late\n   Archbishop Tait.]\n\n   [Footnote 115: Miss Peggy Chalmers.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLVL.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, _November_ 1790.\n\n\"As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.\"\n\nFate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the\nmany tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I most\ncordially obey the apostle--\"Rejoice with them that do rejoice;\" for me,\nto sing for joy, is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done\nin the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture\nto which I never rose before.\n\nI read your letter--I literally jumped for joy. How could such a\nmercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of\nthe best news from his best friend. I seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod,\nan instrument indispensably necessary in the moment of inspiration and\nrapture; and stride, stride-quick and quicker-out skipt I among the\nbroomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the\nbounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but not\na more sincere compliment to the sweet little fellow, than I, extempore\nalmost, poured out to him in the following verses:--\n\n  Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, etc.[116]\n\nI am much flattered by your approbation of my \"Tam o' Shanter,\" which\nyou express in your former letter; though, by-the-bye, you load me in\nthat said letter with accusations heavy and many; to all which I plead,\n_not guilty!_ Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As to\nprinting of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have only to\nspell it right, and place the capital letters properly: as to the\npunctuation, the printers do that themselves.\n\nI have a copy of \"Tam o' Shanter\" ready to send you by the first\nopportunity: it is too heavy to send by post.\n\nI heard of Mr. Corbet lately.[116a] He, in consequence of your\nrecommendation, is most zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon with\nan account of your good folks; if Mrs. H. is recovering, and the young\ngentleman doing well.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 116: See Poems.]\n\n   [Footnote 116a: A Supervisor of Excise.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCLVIL.--To MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S.\n\nELLISLAND, 17_th January_ 1791.\n\nI am not gone to Elysium, most noble Colonel,[117] but am still here in\nthis sublunary world, serving my God by propagating His image, and\nhonouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects.\n\nMany happy returns of the season await my friend. May the thorns of care\nnever beset his path! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, and rapture a\nfrequent visitor of his soul! May the blood-hounds of misfortune never\ntrack his steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his dwelling! May\nenjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thou friend of\nthe Bard! \"Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and cursed be he that\ncurseth thee!!!\"\n\nAs a farther proof that I am still in the land of existence, I send you\na poem, the latest I have composed. I have a particular reason for\nwishing you only to show it to select friends, should you think it\nworthy a friend's perusal: but if at your first leisure hour you will\nfavour me with your opinion of, and strictures on the performance, it\nwill be an additional obligation on, dear Sir, your deeply indebted\nhumble servant,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 117: Colonel of Volunteers.]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLVIIL.--To MR. PETER HILL.\n\nELLISLAND, 17_th January_ 1791.\n\nTake these two guineas, and place them over against that damn'd account\nof yours which has gagged my mouth these five or six months. I can as\nlittle write good things as apologies to the man I owe money to. O the\nsupreme misery of making three guineas do the business of five! Not all\nthe labours of Hercules not all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian\nbondage, were such an insuperable business, such an infernal task!\nPoverty, thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell! where\nshall I find force or execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits?\nOppressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the practice of\nevery virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a little,\nlittle aid to support his existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon,\nwhose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud; and is by him denied and\ninsulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart glows\nwith independence, and melts with sensibility, inly pines under the\nneglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul under the contamely of\narrogant unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose\nill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and\npolite, must see in suffering silence his remark neglected and his\nperson despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit,\nshall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of\nworth that have reason to complain of thee; the children of folly and\nvice, though in common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally\nunder thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and\nneglected education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation,\ndespised and shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring\nhim to want; and when his unprincipled necessities drive him to\ndishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the\njustice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of\nfamily and fortune. _His_ early follies and extravagance are spirit and\nfire; _his_ consequent wants are the embarrassments of an honest fellow;\nand when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commission to\nplunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns,\nperhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder; lives wicked and\nrespected; and dies a scoundrel and a lord. Nay, worst of all, alas for\nhelpless woman!...\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWell! divines may say of it what they please; but execration is to the\nmind, what phlebotomy is to the body; the overloaded sluices of both are\nwonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCLIX.--To DR. MOORE.\n\nELLISLAND, 28_th January_ 1791.\n\nI do not know, Sir, whether you are a subscriber to Grose's _Antiquities\nof Scotland_. If you are, the inclosed poem will not be altogether new\nto you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the\nproof sheet, of which this is one. Should you have read the piece\nbefore, still this will answer the principal end I have in view: it will\ngive me another opportunity of thanking you for all your goodness to the\nrustic bard; and also of showing you, that the abilities you have been\npleased to commend and patronise, are still employed in the way\nyou wish.\n\nThe _Elegy on Captain Henderson_ is a tribute to the memory of the man I\nloved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics;\nthey can be of service to their friends after they have passed that\nbourne where all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, after\nall, either the one or the other be of any real service to the dead, is,\nI fear, very problematical; but I am sure they are highly gratifying to\nthe living: and as a very orthodox text, I forget where in Scripture,\nsays, \"whatsoever is not of faith is sin;\" so say I, whatsoever is not\ndetrimental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the\ngiver of all good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed by His\ncreatures with thankful delight. As almost all my religious tenets\noriginate from my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the idea, that I\ncan still keep up a tender intercourse with the dearly beloved friend,\nor still more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to the world\nof spirits.\n\nThe ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with _Percy's\nReliques of English Poetry_. By the way, how much is every honest heart,\nwhich has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your\nglorious story of Buchanan and Targe! 'Twas an unequivocal proof of your\nloyal gallantry of soul giving Targe the victory. I should have been\nmortified to the ground if you had not.\n\nI have just read over, once more of many times, your _Zeluco_. I marked\nwith my pencil as I went along, every passage that pleased me above the\nrest; and one or two, which, with humble deference, I am disposed to\nthink unequal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes thought to\ntranscribe these marked passages, or at least so much of them as to\npoint where they are, and send them to you. Original strokes that\nstrongly depict the human heart, is your and Fielding's province, beyond\nany other novelist I have ever perused. Richardson, indeed, might,\nperhaps, be excepted; but unhappily, his _dramatis personæ_ are beings\nof another world; and however they may captivate the unexperienced\nromantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, in proportion as we\nhave made human nature our study, dissatisfy our riper years.\n\nAs to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before\nthe Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the\nlist of excise as a supervisor. T am not yet employed as such, but in a\nfew years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I\nhave had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn--the\npatron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of\nmy grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it\npervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of my existence;\nso soon as the prince's friends had got in, (and every dog, you know,\nhas his day) my getting forward in the excise would have been an easier\nbusiness than otherwise it will be. Though this was a consummation\ndevoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am;\nand as to my boys, poor little fellows! if I cannot place them on as\nhigh an elevation in life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured so\nmuch of the Disposer of events as to see that period, fix them on as\nbroad and independent a basis as possible. Among the many wise adages\nwhich have been treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of\nthe best--_Better be the head o' the commonalty than the tail o'\nthe gentry_.\n\nBut I am got on a subject which, however interesting to me, is of no\nmanner of consequence to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the\nother page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the\nhonour to be, yours, etc.,\n\nR. B.\n\nWritten on the blank leaf of a book which I presented to a very young\nlady, whom I had formerly characterised under the denomination of _The\nRose Bud._[118]\n\n   [Footnote 118: See Poems---\"Lines to Miss Cruikshank.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLX.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, _7th Feb. 1791._\n\nWhen I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with my\nhorse, I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the first day\nmy arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing,--you will allow\nthat it is too good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. I am\nnow getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, which implies some\ntolerable ease; as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is able to\ncompose on the rack.\n\nI do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having an idea of\ncomposing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had the\nhonour of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt so\nmuch at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amiable and\naccomplished a piece of God's work was no more. I have, as yet, gone no\nfarther than the following fragment, of which please let me have your\nopinion. You know that elegy is a subject so much exhausted, that any\nnew idea on the business is not to be expected: 'tis well if we can\nplace an old idea in a new light. How far I have succeeded as to this\nlast, you will judge from what follows. I have proceeded no further.\n\nYour kind letter, with your kind _remembrance_ of your godson, came\nsafe. This last, Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the\nlittle fellow,[118a] he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have of a\nlong time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and\nmeasles over, has cut several teeth, and never had a grain of doctor's\ndrugs in his bowels.\n\nI am truly happy to hear that the \"little floweret\" is blooming so fresh\nand fair, and that the \"mother plant\" is rather recovering her drooping\nhead. Soon and well may her \"cruel wounds\" be healed! I have written\nthus far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a little abler you\nshall hear farther from, Madam, yours,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 118a: The infant was Francis Wallace, the Poet's second\n   son.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXI.--To THE REV. ARCH. ALISON.\n\nELLISLAND, _near Dumfries 14th Feb. 1791._\n\nSir,--You must by this time have set me down as one of the most\nungrateful of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book,\nwhich does honour to science and the intellectual powers of man, and I\nhave not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is,\nyou yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your telling me\nthat you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy\nof mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most\neasily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance with\nthe look-out of a critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned digest\nof strictures on a composition, of which, in fact, until I read the\nbook, I did not even know the first principles. I own, Sir, that at\nfirst glance, several of your propositions startled me as paradoxical.\nThat the martial clangour of a trumpet had something in it vastly more\ngrand, heroic, and sublime, than the twingle twangle of a Jews-harp;\nthat the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is\nheavy with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and\nelegant than the upright stub of a burdock; and that from something\ninnate and independent of all associations of ideas;-these I had set\ndown as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my\nfaith. In short, Sir, except Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I made\na shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the winter evening of\nthe first season I held the plough, I never read a book which gave me\nsuch a quantum of information, and added so much to my stock of ideas,\nas your _Essays on the Principles of Taste_. One thing, Sir, you must\nforgive my mentioning as an uncommon merit in the work, I mean the\nlanguage. To clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds\nsomething like a contradiction in terms; but you have convinced me that\nthey are quite compatible.\n\nI inclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one in\nprint is my first essay in the way of telling a tale.--I am, Sir, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXII.--TO THE REV. G. BAIRD.\n\nELLISLAND, 1791.\n\nReverend Sir,--Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a\nhesitating style on the business of poor Bruce?[119] Don't I know, and\nhave I not felt, the many ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is\nheir to? You shall have your choice of all the unpublished poems[120] I\nhave; and had your letter had my direction so as to have reached me\nsooner (it only came to my hand this moment) I should have directly put\nyou out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some prefatory\nadvertisement in the book, as well as the subscription bills, may bear,\nthat the publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I\nwould not put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to\ninsinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work from mercenary motives.\nNor need you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in my part of\nthe business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and\nbackslidings (anybody but myself might perhaps give some of them a worse\nappellation), that by way of some balance, however trifling, in the\naccount, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited power\nto a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little\nthe vista of retrospection.\n\nR. B.\n\n[Footnote 119: Michael Bruce, a young poet of Kinross-Shire.]\n\n[Footnote 120: _Tam o' Shanter_ included! It was refused!!]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXIII.--TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, WRITER, EDINBURGH.\n\nELLISLAND, 2_th March_ 1791.\n\nIf the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have them. For\nmy own part, a thing I have just composed always appears through a\ndouble portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever view\nhis own works. I believe, in general, novelty has something in it that\ninebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away\nlike other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with an\naching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced, in the\nrevolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid\nprose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish priest,\nI shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you another song of my\nlate composition, which will appear perhaps in Johnson's work, as well\nas the former.\n\nYou must know a beautiful Jacobite air, _There'll never be peace till\nJamie comes hame_. When political combustion ceases to be the object of\nprinces and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of\nhistorians and poets.\n\n  By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,\n  I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;\n  And as he was singing, the tears fast down came--\n  There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.\n\nIf you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot\nimagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by the charms\nof your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion, to \"the\nmemory of joys that are past,\" to the few friends whom you indulge in\nthat pleasure. But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock has\nintimated the near approach of\n\n  That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane.\n\nSo good night to you! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams!\nApropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad I have just now on\nthe tapis?--\n\n  I look to the west when I gae to my rest,\n    That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;\n  Far, far in the west is he I lo'e best,\n    The lad that is dear to my babie and me!\n\nGood night once more, and God bless you!\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXIV.--TO MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nELLISLAND, 11_th April_ 1791.\n\nI am once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my own\nhand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and particularly\nfor your kind anxiety in this last disaster that my evil genius had in\nstore for me. However, life is chequered--joy and sorrow--for on\nSaturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine boy;\nrather stouter, but not so handsome as your godson was at his time of\nlife. Indeed, I look on your little namesake to be my _chef d'oeuvre_ in\nthat species of manufacture, as I look on \"Tam o' Shanter\" to be my\nstandard performance in the poetical line. 'Tis true, both the one and\nthe other discover a spice of roguish waggery, that might perhaps be as\nwell spared; but then they also show, in my opinion, a force of genius,\nand a finishing polish, that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is\ngetting stout again, and laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast,\nas a reaper from the corn-ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and\nblessing of our hale sprightly damsels, that are bred among the _hay_\n_and heather_. We cannot hope for that highly polished mind, that\ncharming delicacy of soul, which is found among the female world in the\nmore elevated stations of life, and which is certainly by far the most\nbewitching charm in the famous cestus of Venus, It is indeed such an\ninestimable treasure, that where it can be had in its native heavenly\npurity, unstained by some one or other of the many shades of\naffectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the many species of\ncaprice, I declare to Heaven I should think it cheaply purchased at the\nexpense of every other earthly good! But as this angelic creature is, I\nam afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally\ndenied to such an humble one as mine, we meaner mortals must put up with\nthe next rank of female excellence. As fine a figure and face we can\nproduce as any rank of life whatever; rustic, native grace; unaffected\nmodesty and unsullied purity; nature's mother-wit and the rudiments of\ntaste, a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with,\nthe crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world; and the\ndearest charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, and\na generous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently\nglowing with a more than equal return; these, with a healthy frame, a\nsound, vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can scarcely ever\nhope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life.\n\nThis is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me hear,\nby first post, how _cher petit Monsieur_ comes on with his small-pox.\nMay Almighty goodness preserve and restore him!\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXV.--TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.\n\n11_th June_ 1791.\n\nLet me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman who\nwaits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, principal\nschoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the\npersecution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is\naccused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help\nthe teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend\nClarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists\non lighting up the rays of science in a fellow's head whose skull is\nimpervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture\nwith a cudgel: a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety to attempt\nmaking a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of\nfate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator.\n\nThe patrons of Moffat school are the ministers, magistrates, and town\ncouncil of Edinburgh; and as the business comes now before them, let me\nbeg my dearest friend to do every thing in his power to serve the\ninterests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly\nrespect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and\ncouncil, but particularly you have much to say with a reverend gentleman\nto whom you have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this\ncountry and age have had the honour to produce. I need not name the\nhistorian of Charles V.[121] I tell him through the medium of his\nnephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who will not disgrace\neven his patronage. I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say\nit, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance.\n\nGod help the children of dependence! Hated and persecuted by their\nenemies, and too often, alas! almost unexceptionally always, received by\ntheir friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of\ncold civility and humiliating advice. O! to be a sturdy savage, stalking\nin the pride of his independence, amid the solitary wilds of his\ndeserts, rather than in civilised life, helplessly to tremble for a\nsubsistence precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature! Every man\nhas his virtues, and no man is without his failings; and plague on that\nprivileged plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the hour of my\ncalamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand without at the same time\npointing out those failings, and apportioning them their share in\nprocuring my present distress. My friends, for such the world calls ye,\nand such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you please,\nbut do, also, spare my follies; the first will witness in my breast for\nthemselves, and the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind\nwithout you. And since deviating more or less from the paths of\npropriety and rectitude must be incident to human nature, do thou,\nFortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of myself, to bear\nthe consequence of those errors! I do not want to be independent that I\nmay sin, but I want to be independent in my sinning.\n\nTo return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out with, let me\nrecommend my friend, Mr. Clarice, to your acquaintance and good offices;\nhis worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the\nother. I long much to hear from you. Adieu!\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 121: Dr. Robertson, uncle to Mr. Alexander Cunningham.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXVL--To MR. THOMAS SLOAN.[122]\n\nELLISLAND, _Sept. 1st_, 1791.\n\nMy Dear Sloan,--Suspense is worse than disappointment; for that reason I\nhurry to tell you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantine does not\nchoose to interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but\ncannot help it.\n\nYou blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to\nrecollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of\ninformation;--your address.\n\nHowever, you know equally well my hurried life, indolent temper, and\nstrength of attachment. It must be a longer period than the longest life\n\"in the world's hale and undegenerate days,\" that will make me forget so\ndear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times, but I will\nnot part with such a treasure as that.\n\nI can easily enter into the _embarras_ of your present situation. You\nknow my favourite quotation from Young--\n\n  On Reason build RESOLVE!\n  That column of true majesty in man,--\n\nand that other favourite one from Thomson's \"Alfred\"--\n\n  What proves the hero truly GREAT,\n  Is, never, never to despair.\n\nOr, shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance?--\n\n  Whether DOING, SUFFERING, or FORBEARING,\n  You may do miracles by--PERSEVERING.\n\nI have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going on in\nthe old way. I sold my crop on this day se'ennight, and sold it very\nwell. A guinea an acre, on an average, above value. But such a scene of\ndrunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup was\nover, about thirty people engaged in a battle, every man for his own\nhand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much better\nin the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor,\nand decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending them, that\nthey could not stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as\nI was no farther over than you used to see me.\n\nMrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks.\n\nFarewell! and God bless you, my dear Friend! R.B.\n\n   [Footnote 122: Of Wanlockhead. Burns got to know him during his\n   frequent journeys between Ellisland and Mauchline in 1788-9.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXVII--TO MR. AINSLIE.\n\nELLISLAND, 1791.\n\nMy Dear Ainslie,--Can you minister to a mind diseased? can you, amid the\nhorrors of penitence, regret, remorse, head-ache, nausea, and all the\nrest of the damn'd hounds of hell that beset a poor wretch who has been\nguilty of the sin of drunkenness--can you speak peace to a\ntroubled soul?\n\n_Miserable perdu_ that I am, I have tried every thing that used to amuse\nme, but in vain; here must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid up in\nstore for the wicked, slowly counting every click of the clock as it\nslowly, slowly numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, damn\nthem, are ranked up before me, every one at his neighbour's backside,\nand every one with a burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my\ndevoted head--and there is none to pity me. My wife scolds me, my\nbusiness torments me, and my sins come staring me in the face, every one\ntelling a more bitter tale than his fellow.--When I tell you even ----\nhas lost its power to please, you will guess something of my hell\nwithin, and all around me.--I began _Elibanks and Elibraes_, but the\nstanzas fell unenjoyed and unfinished from my listless tongue: at last I\nluckily thought of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by me\nin my bookcase, and I felt something for the first time since I opened\nmy eyes, of pleasurable existence.----Well--I begin to breathe a little,\nsince I began to write to you. How are you, and what are you doing? How\ngoes Law? Apropos, for correction's sake do not address to me\nsupervisor, for that is an honour I cannot pretend to--I am on the list,\nas we call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by-and-by to act\nas one; but at present I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I got an\nappointment to an excise division of £25 _per annum_ better than the\nrest. My present income, down money, is £70 _per annum_.\n\nI have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to know.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXVIII.--TO MISS DAVIES.\n\nIt is impossible, Madam, that the generous warmth and angelic purity of\nyour youthful mind can have any idea of that moral disease under which I\nunhappily must rank as the chief of sinners; I mean a torpitude of the\nmoral powers that may be called a lethargy of conscience. In vain\nRemorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes: beneath the\ndeadly-fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence their wildest ire is\ncharmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter\nin the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, Madam, could have made me\nso long neglect your obliging commands. Indeed, I had one apology--the\nbagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, so strongly am I interested\nin Miss Davies's fate and welfare in the serious business of life, amid\nits chances and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly ballad\nis downright mockery of these ardent feelings; 'tis like an impertinent\njest to a dying friend.\n\nGracious Heaven! why this disparity between our wishes and our powers?\nWhy is the most generous wish to make others blest impotent and\nineffectual as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless desert? In my\nwalks of life I have met with a few people to whom how gladly would I\nhave said--\"Go, be happy! I know that your hearts have been wounded by\nthe scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed above you; or worse\nstill, in whose hands are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your\nlife. But there! ascend that rock, Independence, and look justly down on\ntheir littleness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your\nindignation, and the foolish sink before your contempt; and largely\nimpart that happiness to others which, I am certain, will give\nyourselves so much pleasure to bestow.\"\n\nWhy, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and find it\nall a dream? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find myself poor\nand powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of\nadding one comfort to the friend I love? Out upon the world! say I, that\nits affairs are administered so ill! They talk of reform;--good Heaven!\nwhat a reform would I make among the sons, and even the daughters of\nmen! Down, immediately, should go fools from the high places where\nmisbegotten chance has perked them up, and through life should they\nskulk, ever haunted by their native insignificance, as the body marches\naccompanied by its shadow. As for a much more formidable class, the\nknaves, I am at a loss what to do with them: had I a world, there should\nnot be a knave in it.\n\nBut the hand that could give, I would liberally fill: and I would pour\ndelight on the heart that could kindly forgive, and generously love.\n\nStill the inequalities of life are, among men, comparatively tolerable;\nbut there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view in which\nwe can place lovely Woman, that are grated and shocked at the rude,\ncapricious distinctions of Fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of life:\nlet there be slight degrees of precedency among them--but let them be\nALL sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not\naccountable; it is an original component feature of my mind.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXIX.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\n_5th January_ 1792.\n\nYou see my hurried life, Madam: I can only command starts of time;\nhowever, I am glad of one thing; since I finished the other sheet, the\npolitical blast that threatened my welfare is overblown. I have\ncorresponded with Commissioner Graham, for the Board had made me the\nsubject of their animadversions; and now I have the pleasure of\ninforming you that all is set to rights in that quarter. Now as to these\ninformers, may the devil be let loose to--but, hold! I was praying most\nfervently in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swearing\nin this.\n\nAlas! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think what mischief\nthey do by their malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or\nthoughtless babblings. What a difference there is in intrinsic worth,\ncandour, benevolence, generosity, kindness,--in all the charities and\nall the virtues--between one class of human beings and another!\n\nFor instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed with in the\nhospitable hall of Dunlop, their generous hearts--their uncontaminated\ndignified minds--their informed and polished understandings--what a\ncontrast, when compared--if such comparing were not downright\nsacrilege--with the soul of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the\ndestruction of an honest man that never offended him, and with a grin of\nsatisfaction see the unfortunate being, his faithful wife, and prattling\ninnocents, turned over to beggary and ruin!\n\nYour cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two worthy fellows dining\nwith me the other day, when I, with great formality, produced my\nwhigmeleerie cup, and told them that it had been a family-piece among\nthe descendants of William Wallace, This roused such an enthusiasm, that\nthey insisted on bumpering the punch round in it; and by-and-by, never\ndid your great ancestor lay a _Southron_ more completely to rest than\nfor a time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the season of\nwishing. May God bless you, my dear friend, and bless me, the humblest\nand sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet many returns of the\nseason! May all good things attend you and yours wherever they are\nscattered over the earth!\n\nR.B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXX.--TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER.\n\nDUMFRIES, _22nd January_ 1792.\n\nI sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady[123] to you, and a\nlady in the first ranks of fashion, too. What a task! to you--who care\nno more for the herd of animals called young ladies than you do for the\nherd of animals called young gentlemen; to you--who despise and detest\nthe groupings and combinations of fashion, as an idiot painter that\nseems industrious to place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the\nforeground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often\nthrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddell, who will take this letter to\ntown with her, and send it to you, is a character that, even in your own\nway as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to your\nacquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary of the muses; and as I think\nmyself somewhat of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her\nverses, always correct, and often elegant, are much beyond the common\nrun of the _lady poetesses_ of the day. She is a great admirer of your\nbook; and, hearing me say that I was acquainted with you, she begged to\nbe known to you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to our\nCaledonian capital. I told her that her best way was to desire her near\nrelation, and your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his\nhouse while she was there; and lest you might think of a lively West\nIndian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too often deserve to be\nthought of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. To be\nimpartial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, she has one\nunlucky failing--a failing which you will easily discover, as she seems\nrather pleased with indulging in it; and a failing that you will easily\npardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself;--where she\ndislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it, than\nwhere she esteems and respects.\n\nI will not present you with the unmeaning _compliments of the season_,\nbut I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that\nFortune may never throw your subsistence to the mercy of a knave, or set\nyour character on the judgment of a fool; but that, upright and erect,\nyou may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall say, here\nlies a man who did honour to science, and men of worth shall say, here\nlies a man who did honour to human nature.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 123: Maria Riddell, a gay, clever, young Creole, wife of\n   Walter, brother of Captain Riddell.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXL--TO MR. WILLIAM NICOL.\n\n20_th February_ 1792.\n\nO thou wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon of\ndiscretion, and chief of many counsellors! How infinitely is thy\npuddle-headed, rattleheaded, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted\nto thy super-eminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own\nright-lined rectitude, thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch,\nof whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from\nthe simple copulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions!\nMay one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy\nsensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of\ninspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the\nface and favour of that father of proverbs and master of maxims, that\nantipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty Willie\nNicol! Amen! Amen! Yea, so be it!\n\nFor me! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing! From the cave of my\nignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes of my\npolitical heresies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad through the\niron-barred lucarne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of\na summer sun! Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, When shall my\nname be the quotation of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of\nthe godly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills?[124] As for\nhim, his works are perfect: never did the pen of calumny blur the fair\npage of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling.\n\nThou mirror of purity, when shall the elfin lamp of my glimmerous\nunderstanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine\nlike the constellation of thy intellectual powers. As for thee, thy\nthoughts are pure and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath\nof the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the\nsacred flame of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound desires: never did\nthe vapours of impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean\nimagination. O that like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the\ntenor of my conversation! then should no friend fear for my strength, no\nenemy rejoice in my weakness! Then should I lie down and rise up, and\nnone to make me afraid. May thy pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O\nthou lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality! thy devoted slave,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 124: Mr. Nicol had purchased a small piece of ground called\n   Laggan, on the Nith. There took place the Bacchanalian scene which\n   called forth \"Willie brew'd a peck o' Maat.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXIL.--TO MR. FRANCIS GROSE, F.S A.\n\nDUMFRIES, 1792.\n\nAmong the many witch stories I have heard, relating to Alloway Kirk, I\ndistinctly remember only two or three.\n\nUpon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, and bitter blasts\nof hail; in short, on such a night as the devil would choose to take the\nair in; a farmer or farmer's servant was plodding and plashing homeward\nwith his plough-irons on his shoulder, having been getting some repairs\non them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the kirk of Alloway,\nand being rather on the anxious look out in approaching a place so well\nknown to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the devil's friends and\nemissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering through the horrors of\nthe storm and stormy night, a light, which on his nearer approach\nplainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted edifice. Whether he\nhad been fortified from above on his devout supplication, as is\ncustomary with people when they suspect the immediate presence of Satan;\nor whether, according to another custom, he got courageously drunk at\nthe smithy, I will not pretend to determine; but so it was that he\nventured to go up to, nay, into the very kirk. As luck would have it his\ntemerity came off unpunished.\n\nThe members of the infernal junto were all out on some midnight business\nor other, and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, depending\nfrom the roof, over the fire, simmering some heads of unchristened\nchildren, limbs of executed malefactors, etc., for the business of the\nnight. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, with the honest ploughman:\nso without ceremony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, and,\npouring out the damn'd ingredients, inverted it on his head, and carried\nit fairly home, where it remained long in the family, a living evidence\nof the truth of the story.\n\nAnother story, which I can prove to be equally authentic, is as follows:\n\nOn a market day in the town of Ayr a farmer from Carrick, and\nconsequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard, in\norder to cross the river Doon at the old Bridge, which is about two or\nthree hundred yards farther on than the said gate, had been detained by\nhis business, till by the time he reached Alloway it was the wizard\nhour, between night and morning.\n\nThough he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet as it\nis a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions is running by\nfar the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advanced on his road.\nWhen he had reached the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and\nentertained, through the ribs and arches of an old gothic window, which\nstill faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it\nround their old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them all alive\nwith the power of his bagpipe. The farmer stopping his horse to observe\nthem a little, could plainly descry the faces of many old women of his\nacquaintance and neighbourhood. How the gentleman was dressed tradition\ndoes not say; but that the ladies were all in their smocks: and one of\nthem happening unluckily to have a smock which was considerably too\nshort to answer all the purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer was\nso tickled that he involuntarily burst out with a loud laugh, \"Weel\nluppen, Maggy wi' the short sark!\" and recollecting himself, instantly\nspurred his horse to the top of his speed. I need not mention the\nuniversally known fact, that no diabolical power can pursue you beyond\nthe middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer that\nthe river Doon was so near, for, notwithstanding the speed of his horse,\nwhich was a good one, against he reached the middle of the arch of the\nbridge, and consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing,\nvengeful hags were so close at his heels, that one of them actually\nsprung to seize him; but it was too late; nothing was on her side of the\nstream but the horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her infernal\ngrip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; but the farmer was beyond\nher reach. However, the unsightly, tail-less condition of the vigorous\nsteed was to the last hour of the noble creature's life, an awful\nwarning to the Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr markets.\n\nThe last relation I shall give, though equally true, is not so well\nidentified as the two former, with regard to the scene; but as the best\nauthorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it.\n\nOn a summer's evening, about the time nature puts on her sables to mourn\nthe expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belonging to a farmer in\nthe immediate neighbourhood of Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge,\nand was returning home. As he passed the kirk, in the adjoining field he\nfell in with a crew of men and women, who were busy pulling stems of the\nplant ragwort. He observed that as each person pulled a ragwort, he or\nshe got astride of it, and called out, \"Up, horsie!\" on which the\nragwort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with its rider. The\nfoolish boy likewise pulled his ragwort, and cried with the rest, \"Up,\nhorsie!\" and, strange to tell, away he flew with the company. The first\nstage at which the cavalcade stopt was a merchant's wine-cellar in\nBourdeaux, where, without saying \"By your leave,\" they quaffed away at\nthe best the cellar could afford, until the morning, foe to the imps and\nworks of darkness, threatened to throw light on the matter, and\nfrightened them from their carousals.\n\nThe poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger to the scene and the\nliquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and when the rest took horse, he\nfell asleep, and was found so next day by some of the people belonging\nto the merchant. Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him what he\nwas, he said such a-one's herd in Alloway, and by some means or other\ngetting home again, he lived long to tell the world the wondrous\ntale.[125]\n\nR. B.\n\n[Footnote 125: _Cp._ _Hogg's Witch of Fife._]\n\n        *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXIIL.--TO MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nANNAN WATER FOOT, 22_nd August_ 1792.\n\nDo not blame me for it, Madam--my own conscience, hackneyed and\nweather-beaten as it is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, follies,\nindolence, etc., has continued to punish me sufficiently.\n\nDo you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I could be\nso lost to gratitude for many favours; to esteem for much worth; and to\nthe honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance, and I hope\nand am sure of progressive, increasing friendship--as, for a single day,\nnot to think of you nor to ask the Fates what they are doing and about\nto do with my much loved friend and her wide scattered connections, and\nto beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as they possibly can?\n\nApropos! (though how it is apropos I have not leisure to explain) do you\nknow that I am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours?--Almost!\nsaid I--I _am_ in love, souse! over head and ears, deep as the most\nunfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean; but the word Love, owing to\nthe _intermingledoms_ of the good and the bad, the pure and the impure,\nin this world, being rather an equivocal term for expressing one's\nsentiments and sensations, I must do justice to the sacred purity of my\nattachment. Know, then, that the heart-struck awe the distant humble\napproach; the delight we should have in gazing upon and listening to a\nMessenger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of his\ncelestial home, among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to\ndeliver to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and their\nimaginations soar in transport--such, so delighting and so pure, were\nthe emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley\nBaillie, your neighbour at Mayfield. Mr. B., with his two daughters,\naccompanied by Mr. H. of G., passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on\ntheir way to England, did me the honour of calling on me; on which I\ntook my horse (though God knows I could ill spare the time), and\naccompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day\nwith them. Twas about nine, I think, when I left them, and, riding home,\nI composed the following ballad, of which you will probably think you\nhave a dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat of postage. You\nmust know that there is an old ballad beginning with--\n\n  My bonnie Lizzie Bailie,\n  I'll lowe thee in my plaidie, (etc,)\n\nSo I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy,\n\"unanointed, unanneal'd,\" as Hamlet says,--\n\n  O saw ye bonny Lesley\n    As she gaed o'er the border?\n  She's gane, like Alexander,\n    To spread her conquests farther, (etc.)\n\nSo much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east country, as\nI am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of ours,\nnotwithstanding it has many good things in it, yet it has ever had this\ncurse, that two or three people, who would be the happier the oftener\nthey met together, are, almost without exception, always so placed as\nnever to meet but once or twice a-year, which, considering the few years\nof a man's life, is a very great \"evil under the sun,\" which I do not\nrecollect that Solomon has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of\nman. I hope and believe that there is a state of existence beyond the\ngrave, where the worthy of this life will renew their former intimacies,\nwith this endearing addition, that \"we meet to part no more\"\n\n    Tell us, ye dead,\n  Will none of you in pity disclose the secret\n  What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be!\n\nA thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of\nmen, but not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the question. \"O\nthat some courteous ghost would blab it out!\" but it cannot be; you and\nI, my friend, must make the experiment by ourselves, and for ourselves.\nHowever, I am so convinced that an unskaken faith in the doctrines of\nreligion is not only necessary, by making us better men, but also by\nmaking us happier men, that I shall take every care that your little\ngodson, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall be\ntaught them. So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild\nplace of the world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging a\nvessel of rum from Antigua.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXIV.--TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.\n\nDUMFRIES, 10_th September_ 1792.\n\nNo! I will not attempt an apology. Amid all my hurry of business,\ngrinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on the merciless\nwheels of the Excise; making ballads, and then drinking, and singing\nthem; and, over and above all, the correcting the press-work of two\ndifferent publications; still, still I might have stolen five minutes to\ndedicate to one of the first of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might\nhave done, as I do at present-snatched an hour near \"witching time of\nnight,\" and scrawled a page or two; I might have congratulated my friend\non his marriage; or I might have thanked the Caledonian archers for the\nhonour they have done me (though, to do myself justice, I intended to\nhave done both in rhyme, else I had done both long ere now). Well, then,\nhere is to your good health! for you must know, I have set a nipperkin\nof toddy by me, just by way of spell, to keep away the meikle horned\ndeil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly rounds.\n\nBut what shall I write to you?--\"The voice said, cry,\" and I said, \"What\nshall I cry?\"--O, thou spirit! whatever thou art, or wherever thou\nmakest thyself visible! be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld\nthorn, in the dreary glen through which the herd-callan maun bicker in\nhis gloamin route frae the fauld!--Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of\nnight, to thy task by the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where\nthe repercussions of thy iron flail half affright thyself, as thou\nperformest the work of twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing\nsummon thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose. Be thou a kelpie,\nhaunting the ford or ferry, in the starless night, mixing thy laughing\nyell with the howling of the storm and the roaring of the flood, as thou\nviewest the perils and miseries of man on the foundering horse, or in\nthe tumbling boat!--Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying thy nocturnal\nvisits to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur; or performing thy mystic\nrites in the shadow of the time-worn church, while the moon looks,\nwithout a cloud, on the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead around\nthee; or taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, or the\nmurderer, portraying on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadful as the\nhorrors of unveiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed\nDeity!--Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid forms; come with the\nmilder, gentle, easy inspirations, which thou breathest round the wig of\na prating advocate, or the tête of a tea-sipping gossip, while their\ntongues run at the light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and\never--come and assist a poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to\nshare half an idea among half a hundred words; to fill up four quarto\npages, while he has not got one single sentence of recollection,\ninformation, or remark worth putting pen to paper for.\n\nI feel, I feel the presence of supernatural assistance! Circled in the\nembrace of my elbow-chair, my breast labours, liked the bloated Sibyl on\nher three-footed stool, and like her too, labours with Nonsense.\nNonsense, auspicious name! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the mystic\nmazes of law; the cadaverous paths of physic: and particularly in the\nsightless soarings of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving Common Sense\nconfounded at the strength of his pinion; Reason delirious with eyeing\nhis giddy flight; and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her well,\ncursing the hour that ever she offered her scorned alliance to the\nwizard power of Theologic Vision-raves abroad on all the winds:-- \"On\nearth discord! a gloomy Heaven above, opening her jealous gates to the\nnineteen-thousandth part of the tithe of mankind! and below, an\ninescapable and inexorable hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the\nvast residue of mortals!!! \"--O doctrine! comfortable and healing to the\nweary wounded soul of man! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye\n_pauvres miserables,_ to whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields\nno rest, be comforted! 'Tis but _one_ to nineteen hundred thousand that\nyour situation will mend in this world; so, alas, the experience of the\npoor and needy too often affirms; and 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to\n_one,_ by the dogmas of Theology, that you will be condemned eternally\nin the world to come!\n\nBut of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most nonsensical; so\nenough, and more than enough, of it. Only, by-the-bye, will you, or can\nyou tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of mind has always\na tendency to narrow and illiberalise the heart? They are orderly; they\nmay be just; nay, I have known them merciful: but still your children\nof sanctity move among their fellow-creatures with a nostril snuffing\nputrescence, and a foot spurning filth--in short, with a conceited\ndignity that your titled Douglases, or any other of your Scottish\nlordlings of seven centuries standing, display when they accidentally\nmix among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, in my\nplough-boy days, I could not conceive it possible that a noble lord\ncould be a fool, or a godly man could be a knave. How ignorant are\nplough-boys!--Nay, I have since discovered that a _godly woman_ may be\na--!--But hold--here's t'ye again--this rum is generous Antigua, so a\nvery unfit menstruum for scandal.\n\nApropos, how do you like, I mean _really_ like, the married life? Ah, my\nfriend! matrimony is quite a different thing from what your love-sick\nyouths and sighing girls take it to be! But marriage, we are told, is\nappointed by God, and I shall never quarrel with any of His\ninstitutions. I am a husband of older standing than you, and shall give\nyou my ideas of the conjugal state, (_en passant_--you know I am no\nLatinist-is not _conjugal_ derived from _jugum_, a yoke?) Well, then,\nthe scale of good wifeship I divide into ten parts. Good-nature, four;\nGood Sense, two; Wit, one; Personal Charms, viz., a sweet face, eloquent\neyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but\nthat is so soon spoilt, you know), all these, one; as for the other\nqualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, such as Fortune,\nConnections, Education (I mean education extraordinary), Family blood,\netc., divide the two remaining degrees among them as you please; only,\nremember that all these minor properties must be expressed by\n_fractions,_ for there is not any one of them, in the aforesaid scale,\nentitled to the dignity of an _integer_.\n\nAs for the rest of my fancies and reveries--how I lately met with Miss\nLesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world--how I\naccompanied her and her father's family fifteen miles on their journey,\nout of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works of God, in\nsuch an unequalled display of them--how, in galloping home at night, I\nmade a ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make a part--\n\n  Thou, bonnie Lesley, art a queen,\n    Thy subjects we before thee;\n  Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine,\n    The hearts o' men adore thee.\n  The very deil he could na scathe\n    Whatever wad belang thee!\n  He'd look into thy bonnie face\n    And say, \"I canna wrang thee\"--\n\nbehold all these things are written in the chronicles of my imagination,\nand shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my\nother dear friend, at a more convenient season.\n\nNow to thee and thy wife [_etc._--a mock benediction.]\n\nR.B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXV.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nDUMFRIES, _24th September 1792_.\n\nI have this moment, my dear Madam, yours of the twenty-third. All your\nother kind reproaches, your news, etc., are out of my head when I read\nand think of Mrs. Henri's[126] situation. Good God! a heart-wounded\nhelpless young woman--in a strange, foreign land, and that land\nconvulsed with every horror that can harrow the human feelings\n--sick-looking, longing for a comforter, but finding none--a mother's\nfeelings, too:--but it is too much: He who wounded (He only can) may\nHe heal!\n\nI wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to his family.... I\ncannot say that I give Him joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, as a\nfarmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a _cursed life!_ As to a\nlaird farming his own property; sowing his own corn in hope; and reaping\nit, in spite of brittle weather, in gladness; knowing that none can say\nunto him, \"What dost thou?\"--fattening his herds; shearing his flocks;\nrejoicing at Christmas; and begetting sons and daughters, until he be\nthe venerated, grey-haired leader of a little tribe--'tis a heavenly\nlife! but devil take the life of reaping the fruits that another\nmust eat!\n\nWell, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when I make my\nAyrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs. Burns until her nine months' race is\nrun, which may perhaps be in three or four weeks. She, too, seems\ndetermined to make me the patriarchal leader of a band. However, if\nHeaven will be so obliging as to let me have them in the proportion of\nthree boys to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. I hope, if\nI am spared with them, to show a set of boys that will do honour to my\ncares and name; but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls.\nBesides, I am too poor; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos,\nyour little godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very deil. He,\nthough two years younger, has completely mastered his brother. Robert is\nindeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most\nsurprising memory, and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster.\n\nYou know how readily we get into prattle upon a subject dear to our\nheart: you can excuse it. God bless you and yours!\n\n   [Footnote 126: Her daughter, ill in France.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXVI.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\n_Supposed to have been written on the Death of Mirs. Henri, her\ndaughter, at Muges._\n\nI had been from home, and did not receive your letter until my return\nthe other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued,\nmuch-afflicted friend! I can but grieve with you; consolation I have\nnone to offer, except that which religion holds out to the children of\naffliction--_children of affliction!_--how just the expression! and\nlike every other family, they have matters among them which they hear,\nsee, and feel in a serious, all-important manner, of which the world has\nnot, nor cares to have, any idea. The world looks indifferently on,\nmakes the passing remark, and proceeds to the next novel occurrence.\n\nAlas, Madam! who would wish for many years? What is it but to drag\nexistence until our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a night of\nmisery: like the gloom which blots out the stars, one by one, from the\nface of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the\nhowling waste!\n\nI am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from me again.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXVII.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nDUMFRIES, _6th December 1792._\n\nI shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; and, if at all possible, I\nshall certainly, my much esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting\nat Dunlop House.\n\nAlas, Madam! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have reason to\ncongratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness! I have not passed\nhalf the ordinary term of an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look\nover the obituary of a newspaper that I do not see some names that I\nhave known, and which I and other acquaintances little thought to meet\nwith there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind\nmakes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty,\nand shudder with apprehension for our own fate. But of how different an\nimportance are the lives of different individuals! Nay, of what\nimportance is one period of the same life more than another? A few years\nago I could have lain down in the dust, \"careless of the voice of the\nmorning;\" and now not a few, and these most helpless individuals, would,\non losing me and my exertions, lose both \"staff and shield.\" By the way,\nthese helpless ones have lately got an addition--Mrs. B. having given me\na fine girl since I wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's\"\nEdward and Eleanora:\"\n\n  The valiant, _in himself_ what can he suffer?\n  Or what need he regard his _single_ woes? (etc.)\n\nI do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up\nfavourite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready armour,\noffensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence.\nOf these is one, a very favourite one, from his \"Alfred:\"\n\n  Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds\n  And offices of life; to life itself,\n  With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.\n\nProbably I have quoted these to you formerly, as indeed, when I write\nfrom the heart, I am apt to be guilty of repetitions. The compass of the\nheart, in the musical style of expression, is much more bounded than\nthat of the imagination; so the notes of the former are extremely apt to\nrun into one another; but in return for the paucity of its compass, its\nfew notes are much more sweet....\n\nI see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble out\nt'other sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of the\nreforming, or rather the republican spirit, of your part of the kingdom.\nIndeed, we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a\nplaceman, you know; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so\nmuch as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out\nwithout an interpreter.\n\nI have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty actress's\nbenefit night, I wrote an address, which I will give on the other page,\ncalled \"The Rights of Woman.\" I shall have the honour of receiving your\ncriticisms in person at Dunlop.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXVIII.--To MR. R. GRAHAM, FINTRY.\n\n_December 1792. _\n\nSir,--I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted, by Mr. Mitchel,\nthe collector, telling me that he has received an order from your Board\nto inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person\ndisaffected to government.\n\nSir, you are a husband--and a father. You know what you would feel, to\nsee the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling\nlittle ones, turned adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced from a\nsituation in which they had been respectable and respected, and left\nalmost without the necessary support of a miserable existence. Alas,\nSir! must I think that such, soon, will be my lot! and from the damn'd,\ndark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too! I believe, Sir, I may\naver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a\ndeliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can\nbe, than those I have mentioned, hung over my head; and I say, that the\nallegation, whatever villain has made it, is a lie! To the British\nConstitution, on revolution principles, next after my God, I am most\ndevoutly attached. You, Sir, have been much and generously my friend:\nHeaven knows how warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I\nhave thanked you. Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent;\nhas given you patronage, and me dependence. I would not for my single\nself call on your humanity; were such my insular, unconnected situation,\nI would despise the tear that now swells in my eye--I could brave\nmisfortune, I could face ruin; for at the worst, \"Death's thousand doors\nstand open;\" but, good God! the tender concerns that I have mentioned,\nthe claims and ties that I see at this moment, and feel around me, how\nthey unnerve Courage, and wither Resolution! To your patronage, as a man\nof some genius, you have allowed me a claim; and your esteem, as an\nhonest man, I know is my due: to these, Sir, permit me to appeal; by\nthese may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to\noverwhelm me, and which, with my latest breath I will say it, I have\nnot deserved.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXIX.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nDUMFRIES, _31st December 1792._\n\nDear Madam,--A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my absence, has\nuntil now prevented my returning my grateful acknowledgments to the good\nfamily of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospitable kindness\nwhich rendered the four days I spent under that genial roof, four of the\npleasantest I ever enjoyed. Alas, my dearest friend! how few and\nfleeting are those things we call pleasures! on my road to Ayrshire I\nspent a night with a friend whom I much valued; a man whose days\npromised to be many; and on Saturday last we laid him in the dust!\n\n_Jan. 2nd, 1793._\n\nI have just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for your\nsituation. However, I heartily rejoice in your prospect of recovery from\nthat vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though not quite free of\nmy complaint. You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my\nway of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough; but occasional hard\ndrinking is the devil to me. Against this I have again and again bent my\nresolution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have totally\nabandoned: it is the private parties in the family way, among the\nhard-drinking gentlemen of this country, that do me the mischief--but\neven this I have more than half given over.\n\nMr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present; at least I should\nbe shy of applying. I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor for\nseveral years. I must wait the rotation of the list, and there are\ntwenty names before mine. --I might indeed get a job of officiating,\nwhere a settled supervisor was ill, or aged; but that hauls me from my\nfamily, as I could not remove them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some\nenvious, malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political\nprinciples, and I wish to let that matter settle before I offer myself\ntoo much in the eye of my supervisors. I have set, henceforth, a seal on\nmy lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my\nsentiments. In this, as in everything else, I shall show the undisguised\nemotions of my soul. War I deprecate: misery and ruin to thousands are\nin the blast that announces the destructive demon. But....\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXX.--To MR. ROBERT GRAHAM OF FINTRY.\n\nDUMFRIES, _Morning of 5th Jan._ 1793.\n\nSir,--I am this moment honoured with your letter. With what feelings I\nreceived this other instance of your goodness I shall not pretend\nto describe.\n\nNow to the charges which malice and misrepresentation have brought\nagainst me.[127] It has been said, it seems, that I not only belong to,\nbut head a disaffected party in this town. I know of no party here,\nrepublican or reform, except an old Burgh-Reform party, with which I\nnever had anything to do. Individuals, both republican and reform, we\nhave, though not many of either; but if they have associated, it is more\nthan I have the least knowledge of, and if such an association exist it\nmust consist of such obscure, nameless beings as precludes any\npossibility of my being known to them, or they to me.\n\nI was in the playhouse one night when _Cà Ira_ was called for. I was in\nthe middle of the pit, and from the pit the clamour arose. One or two\npersons, with whom I occasionally associate, were of the party, but I\nneither knew of, nor joined in the plot, nor at all opened my lips to\nhiss or huzza that, or any other political tune whatever. I looked on\nmyself as far too obscure a man to have any weight in quelling a riot,\nand at the same time as a person of higher respectability than to yell\nto the howlings of a rabble. I never uttered any invectives against the\nking. His private worth it is altogether impossible that such a man as I\ncan appreciate; but in his public capacity I always revered, and always\nwill with the soundest loyalty revere the monarch of Great Britain\nas--to speak in masonic--the sacred keystone of our royal arch\nconstitution. As to Reform principles, I look upon the British\nConstitution, as settled at the Revolution, to be the most glorious on\nearth, or that perhaps the wit of man can frame; at the same time I\nthink, not alone, that we have a good deal deviated from the original\nprinciples of that Constitution,--particularly, that an alarming system\nof corruption has pervaded the connection between the Executive and the\nHouse of Commons. This is the whole truth of my Reform opinions, which,\nbefore I knew the complexion of these innovating times, I too\nunguardedly as I now see sported with: henceforth I seal up my lips. But\nI never dictated to, corresponded with, or had the least connection with\nany political association whatever. Of Johnstone, the publisher of the\n_Edinburgh Gazetteer_, I know nothing. One evening, in company with four\nor five friends, we met with his prospectus, which we thought manly and\nindependent; and I wrote to him, ordering his paper for us. If you think\nI act improperly in allowing his paper to come addressed to me, I shall\nimmediately countermand it. I never wrote a line of prose to _The\nGazetteer_ in my life. An address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her\nbenefit night, and which I called \"The Rights of Woman,\" I sent to _The\nGazetteer_, as also some stanzas on the Commemoration of the poet\nThomson: both of these I will subjoin for your perusal. You will see\nthey have nothing whatever to do with politics.\n\nAs to France, I was her enthusiastic votary in the beginning of the\nbusiness. When she came to shew her old avidity for conquest by annexing\nSavoy and invading the rights of Holland, I altered my sentiments.\n\nThis, my honoured patron, is all. To this statement I challenge\ndisquisition. Mistaken prejudice or unguarded passion may mislead, have\noften misled me; but when called on to answer for my mistakes, though no\nman can feel keener compunction for them, yet no man can be more\nsuperior to evasion or disguise.--I have the honour to be, Sir, your\never grateful, etc.,\n\nROBT. BURNS.\n\n   [Footnote 127: Because of what Burns elsewhere called \"Some temeraire\n   conduct of mine, in the political opinions of the day.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXI.--TO MR. ALEX. CUNNINGHAM, W.S., EDINBURGH.\n\nDUMFRIES, _20th Feb_. 1793.\n\nWhat are you doing? What hurry have you got on your head, my dear\nCunningham, that I have not heard from you? Are you deeply engaged in\nthe mazes of the Jaw, the mysteries of love, or the profound wisdom of\n_politics_? Curse on the word!\n\n_Q_. What is Politics?\n\n_A_. It is a science wherewith, by means of nefarious cunning and\nhypocritical pretence, we govern civil politics (sic) for the emolument\nof ourselves and adherents.\n\nQ. What is a minister?\n\nA. An unprincipled fellow who, by the influence of hereditary or\nacquired wealth, by superior abilities or by a lucky conjuncture of\ncircumstances, obtains a principal place in the administration of the\naffairs of government.\n\nQ. What is a patriot?\n\nA. An individual exactly of the same description as a minister, only out\nof place.\n\nI was interrupted in my Catechism, and am returned at a late hour just\nto subscribe my name, and to put you in mind of the forgotten friend of\nthat name who is still in the land of the living, though I can hardly\nsay in the place of hope.\n\nI made the enclosed sonnet[128] the other day. Adieu!\n\nROBT. BURNS.\n\n   [Footnote 128: \"On Hearing a Thrush Sing.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXIL--To MR. CUNNINGHAM.\n\n3rd March 1793.\n\nSince I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time to\nwrite to you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual,\nmeans that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so\ncompletely shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five\nminutes' fragment to take up a pen in.\n\nThank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the renovating\nyear. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare say he\nthinks I have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much appearance\nof truth...\n\nThere is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a\nvaluable seal, a present from a departed friend, which vexes me much. I\nhave gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would make a\nvery decent one; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it; will you\nbe so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a business? I\ndo not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at\nall; but I have invented arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief\nof the name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to\nsupporters. These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a\nbit of a herald, and shall give you, _secundum artem_, my arms. On a\nfield, azure, a holly bush, seeded, proper, in base; a shepherd's pipe\nand crook, saltier-wise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath of the\ncolours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest.\nTwo mottoes; round the top of the crest, _Wood notes wild_; at the\nbottom of the shield, in the usual place, _Better a wee bush than nae\nbield_. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of\npainters of Arcadia, but a _Stock and Horn_, and a _Club_ such as you\nsee at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the\n\"Gentle Shepherd.\" By-the-bye, do you know Allan? He must be a man of\nvery great genius--Why is he not more known?--Has he no patrons? or do\n\"Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and heavy\" on him? I\nonce, and but once, got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest\npastoral in the world: and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket,\nI would have bought it; but I was told that it was printed and engraved\nfor subscribers only. He is the _only_ artist who has hit _genuine_\npastoral _costume_. What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, that\nthey narrow and harden the heart so? I think, that were I as rich as the\nsun, I should be as generous as the day: but as I have no reason to\nimagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must conclude that\nwealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the possessor, at which the man,\nin his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to this, is\nthe idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches as a\nnabob or government contractor possesses, and why they do not form a\nmutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, and the\ngratitude and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXIII.--To Miss BENSON, YORK, AFTERWARDS MRS. BASIL MONTAGU.\n\nDUMFRIES, _21st March 1793._\n\nMadam,--Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old\nfellows before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with\nanybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of\nmany, many happy meetings with them in after-life.\n\nNow, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when\nyou now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual whose\nacquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities\nagainst you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more.\nOn the other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none of the\nleast of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant\nwhom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill-run of the chances\nshall be so against you, that in the over takings, turnings, and\njostlings of life, pop! at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the\nwretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a\nmoment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I\ntake these to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the devil.\nIt is well known that he has some kind of short-hand way of taking down\nour thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is perfectly acquainted with\nmy sentiments respecting Miss Benson; how much I admired her abilities\nand valued her worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her\nacquaintance. For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must entertain no\nhopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again.--I am, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXIV.-To MR. JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, OF MAR.\n\nDUMFRIES, 13th _April 1793.\n\nSir,--Degenerate as human nature is said to be--and in many instances\nworthless and unprincipled it is--still there are bright examples to the\ncontrary: examples that, even in the eyes of superior beings, must shed\na lustre on the name of Man.\n\nSuch an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, came forward to\npatronise and befriend a distant and obscure stranger, merely because\npoverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had\nprovoked the arbitrary of wantonness and power. My much esteemed friend,\nMr, Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a letter he\nhad from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude, for words\nwould but mock the emotions of my soul.\n\nYou have been misinformed as to my final dismissal from the Excise; I am\nstill in the service. Indeed, but for the exertions of a gentleman who\nmust be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintry, a gentleman who has ever\nbeen my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much as a hearing,\nor the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift, with my\nhelpless family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had any other\nresource, probably I might have saved them the trouble of a dismissal;\nbut the little money I gained by my publication is almost every guinea\nembarked to save from ruin an only brother, who, though one of the\nworthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate of men.\n\nIn my defence to their accusations, I said, that whatever might be my\nsentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I abjured the\nidea: That a constitution, which, in its original principles, experience\nhad proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would\nbe insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory: That, in\nconsideration of my being situated in a department, however humble,\nimmediately in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any\nactive part, either personally, or as an author, in the present business\nof Reform: but that, where I must declare my sentiments, I would say\nthere existed a system of corruption between the executive power and the\nrepresentative part of the legislature, which boded no good to our\nglorious constitution, and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see\namended. Some such sentiments as these I stated in a letter to my\ngenerous patron, Mr. Graham, which he laid before the Board at large;\nwhere, it seems, my last remark gave great offence: and one of our\nsupervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed to inquire on the\nspot, and to document me--\"that my business was to act, _not to think_;\nand that whatever might be men or measures, it was for me to be _silent_\nand _obedient_\".\n\nMr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend; so between Mr. Graham and him\nI have been partly forgiven; only I understand that all hopes of my\ngetting officially forward are blasted.\n\nNow, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest\nyou. The partiality of my countrymen has brought me forward as a man of\ngenius, and has given me a character to support. In the Poet I have\navowed manly and independent sentiments, which I trust will be found in\nthe man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife and\nfamily, have pointed out as the eligible, and situated as I was, the\nonly eligible line of life for me, my present occupation. Still my\nhonest fame is my dearest concern; and a thousand times have I trembled\nat the idea of those _degrading_ epithets that malice or\nmisrepresentation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasting\nanticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy\nmalice of savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling paragraphs--\"Burns,\nnotwithstanding the _fanfaronade_ of independence to be found in his\nworks, and after having been held forth to public view and to public\nestimation as a man of some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources\nwithin himself to support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a\npaltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence\nin the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of mankind.\"\n\nIn your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and\ndefiance of these slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from\nbirth, and an exciseman by necessity; but--I will say it! the sterling\nof his honest worth no poverty could debase, and his independent British\nmind, oppression might bend, but could not subdue. Have not I, to me a\nmore precious stake in my country's welfare, than the richest dukedom in\nit?--I have a large family of children, and the prospect of more. I have\nthree sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world souls ill\nqualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves.--Can I look tamely on, and\nsee any machinations to wrest from them the birthright of my boys,--the\nlittle independent Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood?--No! I\nwill not! should my heart's blood stream around my attempt to defend it!\n\nDoes any man tell me that my full efforts can be of no service; and that\nit does not belong to my humble station to meddle with the concerns of\na nation?\n\nI can tell him that it is on such individuals as I that a nation has to\nrest, both for the hand of support and the eye of intelligence. The\nuninformed mob may swell a nation's bulk; and the titled, tinsel,\ncourtly throng may be its feathered ornament; but the number of those\nwho are elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect, yet low enough\nto keep clear of the venal contagion of a court!--these are a\nnation's strength.\n\nI know not how to apologise for the impertinent length of this epistle;\nbut one small request I must ask of you farther--When you have honoured\nthis letter with a perusal, please to commit it to the flames. Burns, in\nwhose behalf you have so generously interested yourself, I have here, in\nhis native colours, drawn as he is; but should any of the people in\nwhose hands is the very bread he eats, get the least knowledge of the\npicture, it would ruin the poor bard for ever!\n\nMy poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to present\nyou with a copy as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent gratitude\nwith which I have the honour to be, Sir, your deeply indebted, and ever\ndevoted, humble servant,\n\nR. B.[129]\n\n   [Footnote 129: This letter was penned in response to the sympathy\n   which Mr. Erskine had expressed for Burns in a letter to Captain\n   Riddell of Carse, when Burns was taken to task by the Board of Excise\n   for his political opinions.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXV.--To MISS M'MORDO, DRUMLANRIG.\n\nDUMFRIES, _Juy 1793._\n\n... Now let me add a few wishes which every man, who has himself the\nhonour of being a father, must breathe when he sees female youth,\nbeauty, and innocence about to enter into this chequered and very\nprecarious world. May you, my young madam, escape that frivolity which\nthreatens universally to pervade the minds and manners of fashionable\nlife, The mob of fashionable female youth--what are they? Are they\nanything? They prattle, laugh, sing, dance, finger a lesson, or perhaps\nturn the pages of a fashionable novel; but are their minds stored with\nany information worthy of the noble powers of reason and judgment? and\ndo their hearts glow with sentiment, ardent, generous, or humane? Were I\nto poetize on the subject I would call them the butterflies of the human\nkind, remarkable only for the idle variety of their ordinary glare,\nsillily straying from one blossoming weed to another, without a meaning\nor an aim, the idiot prey of every pirate of the skies who thinks them\nworth his while as he wings his way by them, and speedily by wintry time\nswept to that oblivion whence they might as well never have appeared.\nAmid this crowd of nothings may you be something, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXVI.--To JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ., DRUMLANRIG.\n\nThis is a painful, disagreeable letter, and the first of the kind I ever\nwrote. I am truly in serious distress for three or four guineas: can\nyou, my dear sir, accommodate me? These accursed times by tripping up\nimportation have, for this year at least, lopped off a full third of my\nincome;[130] and with my large family this is to me a distressing matter.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 130: Never more than 70 UK pounds.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXVII.--To MRS. RIDDEL.\n\nDear Madam,--I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged\nup to your box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of\nthose lobster-coated puppies[131] sitting like another dragon, guarding\nthe Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so\nobligingly offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a\npart of your box-furniture on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business\nof the visit.\n\nAmong the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, or\nunmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine--a shrine, how far\nexalted above such adoration--permit me, were it but for rarity's sake,\nto pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent mind;\nand to assure you that I am, thou most amiable, and most accomplished of\nthy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard,\nthine, etc.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 131: Military officers.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXVIII.--To MRS. RIDDEL.\n\nI will wait on you, my ever valued friend, but whether in the morning I\nam not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and\nmay probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employment\nfor a poet's pen! There is a species of human genus that I call _the\ngin-horse class_: what enviable dogs they are! Round, and round, and\nround they go,--Mundell's ox, that drives his cotton mill, is their\nexact prototype--without an idea or wish beyond their circle; fat,\nsleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit,\naltogether Novemberish, a damn'd melange of fretfulness and melancholy;\nnot enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose\nme in torpor; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, like\na wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a\ncage. Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied,\nwhen he foretold-- \"And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his\nheart, it shall not prosper!\" If my resentment is awaked, it is sure to\nbe where it dare not squeak; and if--....\n\nPray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCLXXXIX.--To MRS. RIDDEL.\n\nI have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of caprice\nin your composition, and you have as often disavowed it; even perhaps\nwhile your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it. Could\nany thing estrange me from a friend such as you?--No! To-morrow I shall\nhave the honour of waiting on you.\n\nFarewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women I even\nwith all thy little caprices!\n\nR B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXC.--To MRS. RIDDEL.\n\nMadam,--I return your commonplace book. I have perused it with much\npleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the\ncritic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value.\n\nIf it is true that \"offences come only from the heart,\" before you I am\nguiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most accomplished of\nwomen, and the first of friends--if these are crimes, I am the most\noffending thing alive.\n\nIn a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly\nconfidence, _now_ to find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn--is a\nwrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of\nmiserable good luck, that while _de-haut-en-bas_ rigour may depress an\nunoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn\nsomething in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his\nsoul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy.\n\nWith the profoundest respect for your abilities, the most sincere esteem\nand ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable manners, and the\nmost fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have\nthe honour to be, Madam, your most devoted humble servant.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCI.--TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.\n\n25_th February_ 1794.\n\nCanst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and rest\nto a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide\nher course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst\nthou give to a frame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of suspense, the\nstability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast? If thou canst\nnot do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries,\nwith thy inquiries after me?\n\nFor these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution\nand frame were, _ab origine_, blasted with a deep incurable taint of\nhypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic\nvexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times;\nlosses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear, have so\nirritated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a\nreprobate spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition.\n\nAre you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in\nreflection every topic of comfort. _A heart at ease_ would have been\ncharmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself, I was like\nJudas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the hearts\nof those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility.\n\nStill there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of\nmisfortune and misery. The ONE is composed of the different\nmodifications of a certain noble, stubborn something in a man, known by\nthe names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The OTHER is made up of\nthose feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny them,\nor the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and\ncomponent parts of the human soul; those _senses of the mind_ if I may\nbe allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those\nawful obscure realities--an all-powerful, and equally beneficent God;\nand a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the\nnerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field: the last pours\nthe balm of comfort into the wounds which time can never cure.\n\nI do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on the\nsubject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick of\nthe crafty FEW, to lead the undiscerning MANY; or at most, as an\nuncertain obscurity which mankind can never know anything of, and with\nwhich they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would I\nquarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his\nwant of a musical ear, I would regret that he was shut out from what, to\nme and to others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in\nthis point of a view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the\nmind of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be\na man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his\nenjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is\njust now running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent,\nglowing heart; and an imagination, delighted with the painter, and rapt\nwith the poet. Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, to\ninhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the glowing luxuriance of the spring;\nhimself the while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all\nnature, and through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift\ndelighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere until he can be\nsilent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm\nof Thomson,\n\n  These, as they change, Almighty Father, these\n  Are but the varied God. The rolling year\n  Is full of thee.\n\nAnd so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are\nno ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask, what of the\ndelights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal to them?\nAnd they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps\nthem for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the\npresence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCII.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nCASTLE DOUGLAS, _25th June 1794._\n\nHere in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to\namuse my brooding fancy as I may. Solitary confinement, you know, is\nHoward's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by\nwhat fatality it happens, that I have so long been exceeding sinful as\nto neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth.\nTo tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough,\nthough it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies\nof my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I\ntrust they are mistaken.\n\nI am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch\nof a stanza I have been framing, as I passed along the road. The subject\nis Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I\ndesign it an irregular ode for General Washington's birth-day. After\nhaving mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms I come to\nScotland thus:\n\n  Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,\n  Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,\n    To thee I turn with swimming eyes;\n  Where is that soul of freedom fled?\n  Immingled with the mighty dead!\n    Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!\n  Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death;\n    Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep,\n    Disturb ye not the hero's sleep.\n\nYou will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCIII.--To MR. JAMES JOHNSON.\n\nDUMFRIES, 1794.\n\nMy Dear Friend,--You should have heard from me long ago; but over and\nabove some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed\ntimes, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue\ndevils, so that _I have almost hung my harp on the willow trees_.\n\nI am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with\nmy ordinary business, finds me in full employment.\n\nI send you by my friend, Mr. Wallace, forty-one songs for your fifth\nvolume; if we cannot finish it any other way, what would you think of\nScotch words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the meantime, at your\nleisure, give a copy of the _Museum_ to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter\nHill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly\nas he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every anecdote I\ncan learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A\ncopy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some\nafter period, by way of making the _Museum_ a book famous to the end of\ntime, and you renowned for ever.\n\nI have got a highland dirk, for which I have great veneration, as it\nonce was the dirk of _Lord Balmerino_. It fell into bad hands, who\nstripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. I\nhave some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted\nanew.--Yours, etc.,\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCIV.--To MR. PETER MILLER, JUN., OF DALSWINION.[131]\n\nDUMFRIES, _Nov. 1794._\n\nDear Sir,--Your offer is indeed truly generous, and sincerely do I thank\nyou for it; but in my present situation, I find that I dare not accept\nit. You well know my political sentiments; and were I an insular\nindividual, unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the\nmost fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services; I then\ncould and would have despised all consequences that might have ensued.\n\nMy prospect in the Excise is something; at least, it is--encumbered as\nI am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half-a-score of\nhelpless individuals--what I dare not sport with.\n\nIn the meantime, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let them insert\nit as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to me. Nay, if\nMr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot doubt, if\nhe will give me an address and channel by which anything will come safe\nfrom those spies with which he may be certain that his correspondence is\nbeset, I will now and then send him any bagatelle that I may write. In\nthe present hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be\nregarded; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my\nlittle assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I\nhave long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose\nessays, which I propose sending into the world through the medium of\nsome newspaper; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry\nshall be welcome; and all my reward shall be, his treating me with his\npaper, which, by-the-by, to anybody who has the least relish for wit, is\na high treat indeed.\n\nWith the most grateful esteem, I am ever, Dear Sir,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 131: He had offered Burns a post on the staff of _The\n   Morning Chronicle_, of which newspaper Mr. Perry was proprietor.]\n\n        *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCV.--To MRS, RIDDEL,\n\nMadam,--I dare say that this is the first epistle you ever received from\nthis nether world. I write you from the regions of hell, amid the\nhorrors of the damn'd. The time and manner of my leaving your earth I do\nnot exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of\nintoxication, contracted at your too hospitable mansion; but, on my\narrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the\npurgatorial tortures of this infernal confine for the space of\nninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, and all on\naccount of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof.\nHere am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined\non a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor,\nwrinkled, and old, and cruel--his name I think is _Recollection_--with\na whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps\nanguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any measure be\nreinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last\nnight so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my\ntorments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of\nthe company I will make no apology.--Your husband, who insisted on my\ndrinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me, and the other\ngentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to\napologise. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest\nacquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it.\nThere was a Miss I---too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming\nmanners--do make, on my part, a miserable damn'd wretch's best apology\nto her. A Mrs. G--, a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced\nin my favour; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all\nforgiveness.--To all the other ladies please present my humblest\ncontrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O\nall ye powers of decency and decorum! whisper to them that my errors,\nthough great, were involuntary--that an intoxicated man is the vilest of\nbeasts--that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one--that to be\nrude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me--but--\n\nRegret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell hounds that ever dog my steps and\nbay at my heels, spare me! spare me!\n\nForgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, Madam, your humble\nslave,\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCVI.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\n_15th December 1795._\n\nMy Dear Friend,--As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy,\nsullen, stupid, as even the Deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall\nnot drawl out a heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my\nlate silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you will\nsympathise with it: these four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest\nchild, has been so ill, that every day a week or less threatened to\nterminate her existence. There had much need be many pleasures annexed\nto the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many\npeculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours\nthese ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks;\nme and my exertions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread does\nthe life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of fate! even in\nall the vigour of manhood as I am--such things happen every day\n--Gracious God! what would become of my little flock! 'Tis here that I\nenvy your people of fortune. A father on his deathbed, taking an\neverlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of\ncompetent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and\nfriends; while I--but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on\nthe subject!\n\nTo leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old\nScots ballad--\n\n  O that I had ne'er been married,\n    I would never had nae care;\n  Now I've gotten wife and bairns,\n    They cry crowdie evermair.\n\n  Crowdie ance, crowdie twice:\n    Crowdie three times in a day:\n  An ye crowdie ony mair,\n    Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.\n\n  _25th, Christmas Morning._\n\nThis, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes; accept mine--so\nHeaven hear me as they are sincere! that blessings may attend your\nsteps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my\nfavourite author--\"The Man of Feeling,\" \"May the Great Spirit bear up\nthe weight of thy grey hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings\nthem rest!\"\n\nNow that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper? Is not the \"Task\" a\nglorious poem? The religion of the \"Task,\" bating a few scraps of\nCalvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Nature; the religion\nthat exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your _Zeluco_ in\nreturn for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and notes through the\nbook. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty\nto blot it with my criticisms.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCVII.--To MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON.\n\nDUMFRIES, _2Oth December 1795._\n\nI have been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of\nyours.... Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. As I hope to get\na frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take\nup the pen and gossip away whatever comes first, prose or poetry, sermon\nor song. In this last article I have abounded of late. I have often\nmentioned to you a superb publication of Scottish songs, which is making\nits appearance in our great metropolis, and where I have the honour to\npreside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter\nPindar does over the English.\n\n_December 29th._\n\nSince I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the capacity\nof supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load of business,\nand what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have\ncommanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much\nless to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary,\nand during the illness of the present incumbent; but I look forward to\nan early period when I shall be appointed in full form: a consummation\ndevoutly to be wished! My political sins seem to be forgiven me.\n\nThis is the season (New Year's day is now my date) of wishing, and mine\nare most fervently offered up for you! May life to you be a positive\nblessing while it lasts, for your own sake; and that it may yet be\ngreatly prolonged is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the\nrest of your friends! What a transient business is life! Very lately I\nwas a boy; but t'other day I was a young man; and I already begin to\nfeel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast o'er\nmy frame. With all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vices of\nmanhood, still I congratulate myself on having had in early days\nreligion strongly impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one\nas to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes: but I look on\nthe man who is firmly persuaded of infinite Wisdom and Goodness\nsuperintending and directing every circumstance that can happen in his\nlot--I felicitate such a man for having a solid foundation for his\nmental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour of difficulty,\ntrouble, and distress; and a never-failing anchor of hope when he looks\nbeyond the grave.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCXVIII.--To THE HON, THE PROVOST, ETC., OF DUMFRIES.\n\nGentlemen,--The literary taste, and liberal spirit, of your good town\nhas so ably filled the various departments of your schools, as to make\nit a very great object for a parent to have his children educated in\nthem. Still, to me, a stranger, with my large family, and very stinted\nincome, to give my young ones the education I wish, at the high-school\nfees which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me.\n\nSome years ago, your good town did me the honour of making me an\nhonorary Burgess. Will you allow me to request that this mark of\ndistinction may extend so far, as to put me on a footing of a real\nfreeman of the town, in the schools?\n\nIf you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a\nconstant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially\nserve you; and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with\nwhich I have the honour to be, Gentlemen, your devoted humble servant,\n\nR. B.[132]\n\n   [Footnote 132: With the Poet's request the Magistiates of Dumfries\n   very handsomely complied. He was induced to make the request through\n   the persuasions of Mr. James Gray and Mr. Thomas White, Masters of\n   the Grammar School, Dumfries whose memories are still green on the\n   banks of the Nith.--CUNNINGHAM.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\nCXCIX.--To MRS. DUNLOP.[133]\n\nDUMFRIES, _3lst January 1796._\n\nThese many months you have been two packets in my debt--what sin of\nignorance I have committed against so highly valued a friend I am\nutterly at a loss to guess. Alas! Madam, ill can I afford, at this time,\nto be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have\nlately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my\nonly daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so\nrapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to\nher.[133a] I had scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I\nbecame myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the\ndie spun doubtful; until after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to\nhave turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and\nonce indeed have been before my own door in the street.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 133: Cunningham says--\"It seems all but certain that Mrs.\n   Dunlop regarded the Poet with some little displeasure during the\n   evening of his days.\"]\n\n   [Footnote 133a: This child died at Mauchline.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCC.--To MR. JAMES JOHNSON.\n\nDUMFRIES, _4th July 1796._\n\nHow are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume?[134]\nYou may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and\nyour work; but, alas! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care has these\nmany months lain heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction have\nalmost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo\nthe rural muse of Scotia.\n\nYou are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in\nthis world--because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this\npublication has given us, and possibly it may give us more, though,\nalas! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs\nover me will, I doubt much, my dear friend, arrest my sun before he has\nwell reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to far more\nimportant concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of\nsentiment! However, hope is the cordial of the human heart, and I\nendeavour to cherish it as well as I can.\n\nI am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very\ngood already; but my wife has a very particular friend, a young lady who\nsings well, to whom she wishes to present the _Scots Musical Museum_. If\nyou have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very\nfirst fly, as I am anxious to have it soon.--Yours ever,\n\nR. B.[135]\n\n   [Footnote 134: Of the _Musical Museum_.]\n\n   [Footnote 135: \"In this humble manner did poor Burns ask for a copy\n   of a work to which he had contributed, gratuitously, not less than\n   184 original, altered, and collected songs!\"--CROMEK.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCCI--TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.\n\nBROW, _Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July_ 1796.\n\nMy Dear Cunningham,--I received yours here this moment, and am indeed\nhighly flattered with the approbation of the literary circle you\nmention; a literary circle inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas!\nmy friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be heard among you no\nmore! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes\nbedfast and sometimes not; but these last three months I have been\ntortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly\nthe last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me. Pale,\nemaciated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair--\nmy spirits fled! fled!--but I can no more on the subject--only the\nmedical folks tell me that my last and only chance is bathing and\ncountry quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter is this--when an\nexciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to £35 instead of £50. What\nway, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in\ncountry quarters, with a wife and five children at home, on 35 pounds? I\nmention this, because I had intended to beg your utmost interest, and\nthat of all the friends you can muster, to move our Commissioners of\nExcise to grant me the full salary; I dare say you know them all\npersonally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an\nexit truly _en poete_; if I die not of disease, I must perish with\nhunger.[136]\n\nI have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not serve me\nwith, and I have no copy here, but I shall be at home soon, when I will\nsend it you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or\ntwo to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the right\ngender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the respectable\ndesignation of _Alexander Cunningham Burns_. My last was _James\nGlencairn_, so you can have no objection to the company of\nnobility. Farewell.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 136: _Not_ granted.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCCII.--To MR. GILBERT BURNS.\n\n_10th July 1795._\n\nDear Brother,--It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I\nam dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate\nrheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite\nis so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a\nweek at sea-bathing, and will continue there, or in a friend's house in\nthe country, all the summer. God keep my wife and children; if I am\ntaken from their head, they will be poor indeed. I have contracted one\nor two serious debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly\nfrom too much thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town, that\nwill cut in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember\nme to my mother.--Yours,\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCCIII.--To MRS. BURNS.[137]\n\nBROW, _Thursday._\n\nMy Dearest Love,--I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect\nsea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it\nhas eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me; but my appetite is\nstill extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk\nare the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess\nLewars, that you are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to\nher, and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday.--Your\naffectionate husband,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 137: One evening, while at the Brow, Burns was visited by\n   two young ladies. The sun, setting on the western hills, threw a\n   strong light upon him through the window. One of them perceiving\n   this, proceeded to draw the curtain; \"Let me look at the sun, my\n   dear,\" said the sinking poet, \"he will not long shine on me.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCCIV.--To MRS. DUNLOP.\n\nBROW, _Saturday, 12th July 1796._\n\nMadam,--I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that\nI would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am.\nAn illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will\nspeedily send me beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. Your\nfriendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship\ndearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your\ncorrespondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With\nwhat pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds\none pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell!!!\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCCV.--To MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.\n\nDUMFRIES, _12th July._\n\nMY DEAR COUSIN,--When you offered me money assistance, little did I\nthink I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe\na considerable bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has\ncommenced a process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated\nbody into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate me, and that by\nreturn of post, with ten pounds? O James, did you know the pride of my\nheart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The\nworst of it is, my health was coming about finely. Melancholy and low\nspirits are half my disease. If I had it settled, I would be, I think,\nquite well in a manner.\n\nR. B.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCCVI.--To HIS FATHER-IN-LAW, JAMES ARMOUR, MASON, MAUCHLINE.[138]\n\nDUMFRIES, _18th July 1799._\n\nMY DEAR SIR,--Do, for heaven's sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately.\nMy wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good God! what a situation\nfor her to be in, poor girl, without a friend! I returned from\nsea-bathing quarters to-day, and my medical friends would almost\npersuade me that I am better, but I think and feel that my strength is\nso gone that the disorder will prove fatal to me.--Your son-in-law,\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 138: Mrs. Burns's father. This is the very last of Burns's\n   compositions, being written only three days before his death.]\n\n       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE THOMSON LETTERS.\n\n\nPREFATORY NOTE.\n\nThis correspondence began in September 1792, when Burns had already been\ndomiciled nine months in the town of Dumfries, and ended only with his\ndeath in July 1796. It originated in the request of a stranger for a\nseries of songs to suit a projected collection of the best Scottish\nairs. The stranger was George Thomson, a young man of about Burns's own\nage, and head clerk in the office of the Board of Manufactures in\nEdinburgh. Thomson outlived his great correspondent by more than half a\ncentury. He died so recently as 1851, at the advanced age of ninety-two.\nRobert Chambers has described him as a most honourable man, of\nsingularly amiable character and cheerful manners. It may interest some\npeople to know that his granddaughter was the wife of Dickens, the\nfamous novelist.\n\n\nTHE THOMSON LETTER.",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter I",
    "body": "DUMFRIES, _16th September 1792._\n\nSir,--I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make\nto me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall\nenter into your undertaking with all the small portion of abilities I\nhave, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm.\nOnly, don't hurry me. \"Deil tak the hindmost\" is by no means the _crie\nde guerre_ of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in\nenthusiastic attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and,\nsince you request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of\nassistance--will you let me have a list of your airs, with the first\nline of the printed verses you intend for them, that I may have an\nopportunity of suggesting any alteration that may occur to me? You know\n'tis in the way of my trade; still leaving you, gentlemen,[139] the\nundoubted rights of publishers, to approve or reject at your pleasure,\nfor your own publication. _Apropos_ if you are for _English_ verses,\nthere is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of\nthe ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please myself\nin being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English\nverses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are\ncertainly very eligible. \"Tweedside;\" \"Ah! the Poor Shepherd's Mournful\nFate;\" \"Ah! Chloris, could I now but sit,\" etc., you cannot mend; but\nsuch insipid stuff as \"To Fanny fair, could I impart,\" etc., usually set\nto \"The Mill, Mill, O,\" is a disgrace to the collections in which it has\nalready appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will have\nthe very superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther\nprosecution of the business, if I am to be called on for my strictures\nand amendments--I say, amendments; for I will not alter, accept where I\nmyself, at least, think that I amend.\n\nAs to any renumeration, you may think my songs either above or below\nprice; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest\nenthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money,\nwages, fee, hire, etc., would be downright sodomy of soul! A proof of\neach of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive as a favour.\nIn the rustic phrase of the season, \"Gude speed the wark!\"--I am, Sir,\nyour very humble servant,\n\nR. BURNS.\n\nP.S.--I have some particular reasons for wishing my interference to be\nknown as little as possible.\n\n   [Footnote 139: Thomson in his letter spoke of coadjutors, but in less\n   than a year he became sole editor of the collection.]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter II",
    "body": "My Dear Sir,--Let me tell you that you are too fastidious in your ideas\nof songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just; the songs you\nspecify in your list have, _all but one_, the faults you remark in them;\nbut how shall we mend the matter? Who shall rise up and say--Go to, I\nwill make a better? For instance, on reading over \"The Lea-rig,\" I\nimmediately set about trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make\nnothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is\npoor enough:--\n\n  When o'er the hill the eastern star\n  Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, (etc.)\n\nYour observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad to the air,\n\"Nannie O,\" is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad\nin the English language. But let me remark to you, that in the sentiment\nand style of our Scottish airs there is a pastoral simplicity, a\nsomething that one may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal music,\nto which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particularly, nay,\npeculiarly apposite. For this reason, and upon my honour, for this\nreason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is\nyours, freely yours to approve or reject as you please) that my ballad\nof \"Nannie, O\", might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now\ndon't let it enter into your head that you are under any necessity of\ntaking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as to my own\nreputation in the business of authorship; and have nothing to be pleased\nor offended at, in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you\nshould reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased with your\nadopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the same\nassiduity.\n\nIn the printed copy of my \"Nannie, O\", the name of the river is horridly\nprosaic. I will alter it,\n\n  Behind yon hills where _Lugar_ flows.\n\nGirvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best,\nbut Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables.\n\nI will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business; but I\nhave just now an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free of\npostage, an expense that it is ill able to pay; so, with my best\ncompliments to honest Allan,[140] goodbye to ye.\n\n  _Friday night.\n  Saturday morning._\n\nAs I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my\nconveyance goes away, I will give you \"Nannie, O\", at length.\n\nYour remarks on \"Ewe-bughts, Marion\", are just; still it has obtained a\nplace among our more classical Scottish songs; and what with many\nbeauties in its composition, and more prejudices in its favour, you will\nnot find it easy to supplant it.\n\nIn my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies,\nI took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and\nhas nothing of the merits of \"Ewe-bughts\", but it will fill up this\npage. You must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings\nof ardent passion, and though it might have been easy in after-times to\nhave given them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and\nwho perhaps alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my\nheart, which was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth\nsimplicity was, as they say of wines, their _race_.\n\n  Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, (etc.)\n\n\"Gala Water,\" and \"Auld Rob Morris,\" I think, will most probably be the\nnext subject of my musings. However, even on _my verses_, speak out your\ncriticisms with equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the\nuncomplying bigot of _opiniâtretè_, but cordially to join issue with you\nin the furtherance of the work. Gude speed the wark!\n\nAmen.\n\n[Footnote 140: David Allan, the artist.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter III",
    "body": "_November_ 8_th_, 1792,\n\nIf you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your collection shall be\npoetry of the first merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty in\nthe undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in\nmany of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis,\nor what I would call the _feature-notes_ of the tune, that cramp the\npoet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance,\nin the air, \"My Wife's a wanton wee Thing\", if a few lines, smooth and\npretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The enclosed\nwere made extempore to it; and though, on farther study, I might give\nyou something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse\ngallop of the air so well as this random clink.\n\nI have just been looking over the \"Collier's bonny Dochter\", and if the\nenclosed rhapsody which I composed the day, on a charming Ayrshire girl,\nMiss Baillie, as she passed through this place to England, will suit\nyour taste better than the \"Collier Lassie\", fall on and welcome.\n\nI have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs until more\nleisure, as they will take, and deserve a greater effort. However, they\nare all put into your hands, as clay into the hands of the potter, to\nmake one vessel to honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, etc.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter IV",
    "body": "Inclosing \"Highland Mary\".--Tune--_Katharine Ogie_.\n\nYe banks, and braes, and streams around, (etc.)\n\n14_th November_ 1792.\n\nMy Dear Sir,--I agree with you, that the song \"Katharine Ogie\", is very\npoor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I\ntried to mend it; but the awkward sound \"Ogie,\" recurring in the rhyme,\nspoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The\nforegoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you\nwill see at the first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the\nsong is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; and I\nown that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air\nwhich would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all,'tis the still glowing\nprejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of\nthe composition.\n\nI have partly taken your idea of \"Auld Rob Morris\". I have adopted the\ntwo first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which\npromises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the\nmoment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do you, _sans ceremonie_, make what\nuse you choose of the productions. Adieu! etc.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter V",
    "body": "26_th January_ 1793.\n\nI approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's essay will\nof itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to\nthe Doctor's essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, etc., of our Scots\nsongs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in\nthe course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am such an\nenthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through\nScotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every\nsong took its rise, Lochaber and the Braes of Ballendean excepted. So\nfar as locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the\nsong, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular\nshrine of every Scots Muse.\n\nI do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of Jacobite\nsongs--but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not you think\nthat some of them, particularly \"The Sow's Tail to Geordie\", as an air,\nwith other words, might be well worth a place in your collection of\nlively songs?\n\nIf it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to\nhave one set of Scots words to every air, and that the set of words to\nwhich the notes ought to be set. There is a _naïvetè_, a pastoral\nsimplicity, in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology,\nwhich is more in unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every\ngenuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic\nsprightliness of our native music, than any English verses whatever.\n\nThe very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His\n\"Gregory\" is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in\nScots, on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend\nto enter the lists with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. My\nsong, though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the\nballad simplicity in it.\n\n    LORD GREGORY.\n  O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, (etc.)\n\nYour remark on the first stanza of my \"Highland Mary\" is just, but I\ncannot alter it, without injuring the poetry.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter VI",
    "body": "_20th March 1793._\n\nMy Dear Sir,--The song prefixed (\"Mary Morison\") is one of my juvenile\nworks. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very remarkable,\neither for its merits or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it\nso in my stinted powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty.\n\nWhat is become of the list, etc., of your songs? I shall be out of all\ntemper with you by and by. I have always looked on myself as the prince\nof indolent correspondents, and valued myself accordingly; and I will\nnot, cannot bear rivalship from you, nor anybody else.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter VII",
    "body": "_7th April 1793. _\n\nThank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how much\nthis business of composing for your publication has added to my\nenjoyments. What, with my early attachment to ballads, your book, etc.,\nballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification\nwas Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit\nof my race (God grant that I may take the right side of the\nwinning-post!) and then cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with\nwhom I have been happy, I shall say, or sing, \"Sae merry as we a' hae\nbeen\" and raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words\nof the voice of Coila shall be, \"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!\" So\nmuch for my last words; now for a few present remarks as they have\noccurred at random, on looking over your list.\n\nThe first lines of \"The last time I came o'er the Moor\", and several\nother lines in it, are beautiful; but in my opinion--pardon me, revered\nshade of Ramsay!--the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to\n_make_ or _mend_. \"For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,\" is a charming\nsong; but \"Logan Burn and Logan Braes\" are sweetly susceptible of rural\nimagery; I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song may\nclass among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse\nin some of the old songs of \"Logan Water\" (for I know a good many\ndifferent ones), which I think pretty--\n\n  Now my dear lad maun face his faes,\n  Far, far frae me, and Logan braes.\n\n\"My Patie is a lover gay\", is unequal. \"His mind is never muddy,\" is a\nmuddy expression indeed.\n\n  Then I'll resign and marry Pate,\n  And syne my cockernony--\n\nThis is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, \"Rigs of\nBarley\", to the same tune, does not altogether please me; but if I can\nmend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it\nto your consideration. The \"Lass o' Patie's Mill\" is one of Ramsay's\nbest songs; but there is one loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued\nfriend, Mr. Erskine, will take into his critical consideration. In Sir\nJ. Sinclair's statistical volumes are two claims, one I think, from\nAberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song.\nThe following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William\nCunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon,\nI can on such authorities believe.\n\nAllan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father to\nEarl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, his\nlordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on Irwine water, still\ncalled \"Patie's Mill,\" where a bonnie lass was \"tedding hay, bareheaded\non the green.\" My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine theme\nfor a song, Ramsay took the hint, and lingering behind, he composed the\nfirst sketch of it, which he produced at dinner.\n\n\"One day I heard Mary say,\" is a fine song; but for consistency's sake,\nalter the name \"Adonis.\" Was there ever such banns published, as a\npurpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you that my\nsong, \"There's nought but care on every hand,\" is much superior to\n\"Poortith Cauld.\" The original song, \"The Mill, Mill, O,\" though\nexcellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the\ntitle, and think a Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your\nchosen song, which is very pretty, follow, as an English set. The \"Banks\nof Dee\" is, you know, literally \"Langolee\" to slow time. The song is\nwell enough, but has some false imagery in it, for instance,\n\n  And sweetly the nightingale sung from the _tree_.\n\nIn the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from\na tree; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen or\nheard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in\nScotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I could\nhit on another stanza equal to \"The small birds rejoice,\" etc., I do\nmyself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. \"John Anderson, my\njo\"--the song to this tune in Johnson's _Museum_ is my composition, and\nI think it not my worst: if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your\ncollection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very\ncomplete; but not so your comic ones. Where are \"Tullochgorum,\" \"Lumps\no' Puddin',\" \"Tibbie Fowler,\" and several others, which, in my humble\njudgment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one sentimental\nsong of mine in the _Museum_, which never was known out of the immediate\nneighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing.\nIt is called \"Craigie-burn Wood;\" and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke is\none of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it;\nand I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most\nconnoisseurs.\n\nYou are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they\nare certainly Irish. \"Shepherds, I have lost my love,\" is to me a\nheavenly air--what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I\nhave made one a good while ago, which I think is the best love song[141]\nI ever composed in my life; but in its original state it is not quite a\nlady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you\nchoose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.\n\nMr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his \"Lone Vale\" is\ndivine.--Yours, etc.\n\nLet me know just how you like these random hints.\n\n   [Footnote 141: \"Yestreen I had a pint o' wine.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter VIII",
    "body": "_April 1793._\n\nMy Dear Sir,--I own my vanity is flattered when you give my songs a\nplace in your elegant and superb work; but to be of service to the work\nis my first wish. As I have often told you, I do not in a single\ninstance wish you, out of compliment to me, to insert anything of mine.\nOne hint let me give you--whatever Mr. Peyel does, let him not alter one\n_iota_ of the original Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but\nlet our national music preserve its native features. They are, I own,\nfrequently wild, and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on that\nvery eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter IX",
    "body": "_June_ 1793.\n\nWhen I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, in whom I am much\ninterested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will\neasily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among ballads.\nMy own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling; but the total ruin of\na much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming inattention to\nyour last commands.\n\nI cannot alter the disputed lines in the \"Mill, Mill, O.\"[142] What you\nthink a defect I esteem as a positive beauty; so you see how doctors\ndiffer. I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with\nyour commands.\n\nYou know Frazer, the hautboy player in Edinburgh--he is here instructing\na band of music for a fencible corps quartered in this country. Among\nmany of the airs that please me, there is one well known as a reel, by\nthe name of \"The Quaker's Wife\"; and which I remember a grand-aunt of\nmine used to sing, by the name of \"Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie wee lass\".\nMr. Frazer plays it slow, and with an expression that quite charms me. I\nbecame such an enthusiast about it that I made a song for it, which I\nhere subjoin, and inclose Frazer's set of the tune. If they hit your\nfancy, they are at your service; if not, return me the tune, and I will\nput it in Johnson's _Museum_. I think the song is not in my\nworst manner.\n\n  Blithe hae I been on yon hill, (etc.)\n\nI should wish to hear how this pleases you.\n\n   [Footnote 142: The lines were the third and fourth--\n\n   Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,\n   And mony a widow mourning.]\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter X",
    "body": "_June 25th 1793_.\n\nHave you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with\nindignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom\nagainst kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the\nwantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a\nmood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of \"Logan Water;\" and it\noccurred to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from\nthe plaintive indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at\nthe tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with\nprivate distress, the consequence of a country's ruin. If I have done\nanything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song,\ncomposed in three quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair,\nought to have some merit.\n\n  [Here follows \"Logan Water.\"]\n\nDo you know the following beautiful little fragment in\nWitherspoon's _Collection of Scots Songs_?\n\nAir--_Hughie Graham._\n\n  O gin my love were yon red rose,\n    That grows upon the castle wa',\n  And I mysel' a drap o' dew\n    Into her bonnie breast to fa'!\n\n  Oh, there beyond expression blest,\n    I'd feast on beauty a' the night;\n  Seal'd on her silk saft faulds to rest,\n    Till fley'd awa by Phoebus light.\n\nThis thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and quite, so far as I know,\noriginal. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you\naltogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a\nstanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five\nminutes, on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following.\nThe verses are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess; but if\nworthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every poet,\nwho knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a\nconcluding stroke.\n\n  O were my love yon lilac fair,\n    Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;\n  And I a bird to shelter there,\n    When wearied on my little wing;\n\n  How I wad mourn, when it was torn\n    By autumn wild, and winter rude!\n  But I wad sing on wanton wing,\n    When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XI",
    "body": "_July_ 1793.\n\nI assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your pecuniary\nparcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would\nsavour of affectation; but as to any more traffic of that debtor or\ncreditor kind, I swear by that HONOUR which crowns the upright statue of\nROBERT BURNS'S INTEGRITY--on the least motion of it, I will indignantly\nspurn the by--past transaction, and from that moment commence entire\nstranger to you! BURNS'S character for generosity of sentiment and\nindependence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which\nthe cold, unfeeling ore can supply: at least, I will take care that such\na character he shall deserve.\n\nThank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes behold, in\nany musical work, such elegance and correctness. Your preface, too, is\nadmirably written; only, your partiality to me has made you say too\nmuch: however, it will bind me down to double every eifort in the future\nprogress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the songs in\nthe list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you, so I may be\noften tautological, or perhaps contradictory.\n\n\"The Flowers of the Forest\" is charming as a poem; and should be, and\nmust be, set to the notes; but, though out of your rule, the three\nstanzas, beginning,\n\n  I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling,\n\nare worthy of a place, were it but to immortalise the author of them,\nwho is an old lady[143] of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in\nEdinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn; I forget of what place; but from\nRoxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is\n\n  O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting,\n  Why, why torment us--_poor sons of a day_!\n\nThe old ballad, \"I wish I were where Helen lies,\" is silly, to\ncontemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much better.\n\n   [Footnote 142: _Nee_ Rutherford, of Selkirkshire. She was then 81\n   years old.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XII",
    "body": "_August_ 1793.\n\nThat tune, \"Cauld Kail,\" is such a favourite of yours, that I once more\nroved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the muses; when the muse that\npresides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest\nnymph, Coila, whispered me the following. I have two reasons for\nthinking that it was my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by my\nelbow, \"smooth gliding without step,\" and pouring the song on my glowing\nfancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's haunts, not a fragment\nof a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching\ninspiration from her; so I more than suspect she has followed me hither,\nor at least makes me occasional visits; secondly, the last stanza of\nthis song I send you is the very words that Coila taught me many years\nago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's _Museum_.\n\nAutumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than in all the\nyear else. God bless you.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XIII",
    "body": "_Sept_. 1793.\n\nYou may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exertion in my power is\nheartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to you; the very\nname of Peter Finder is of great service to your publication, so get a\nverse from him now and then; though I have no objection, as well as I\ncan, to bear the burden of the business.\n\nYou know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of\nnature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason, many\nmusical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies in\ncounterpoint, however they may transport and ravish the ears of your\nconnoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melodious\ndin. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with many\nlittle melodies which the learned musician despises as silly and\ninsipid. I do not know whether the old air \"Hey tuttie taittie\" may rank\namong this number; but well I know that, with Frazer's hautboy, it has\noften filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met\nwith in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the\nbattle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed\nme to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty and Independence,\nwhich I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one\nmight suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic\nfollowers on that eventful morning.\n\n    BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS,\n  On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.\n    _Hey tuttie taittie_.\n  Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, (etc.)\n\nSo may God ever defend the cause of Truth and Liberty, as He did that\nday!--Amen.\n\nP.S.--I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and\nbegged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea of giving myself\nany trouble on the subject, till the accidental recollection of that\nglorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of some\nother struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my\nrhyming mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will find in\nthe _Museum_; though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle\nit to a place in your elegant selection.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XIV",
    "body": "_September 1793_.\n\nI have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my observations on\nit.[143]\n\n\"Down the burn, Davie.\" I have this moment tried an alteration, leaving\nout the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of the last\nstanza, thus:--\n\n  As down the burn they took their way,\n    And thro' the flowery dale,\n  His cheek to hers he aft did lay,\n    And love was aye the tale.\n\n  With \"Mary, when shall we return,\n    Sic pleasure to renew?\"\n  Quoth Mary, \"Love, I like the burn,\n    And aye shall follow you.\"\n\n\"Thro' the wood, laddie.\" I am decidedly of opinion that both in this\nand \"There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame,\" the second or high\npart of the tune being a repetition of the first part an octave higher,\nis only for instrumental music, and would be much better omitted\nin singing.\n\n\"Cowden-knowes.\" Remember in your index that the song in pure English,\nto this tune, beginning\n\n           When summer comes, the swains on Tweed,\n\nis the production of Crawford; Robert was his Christian name.\n\n\"Laddie lie near me,\" must _lie by me_ for some time. I do not know the\nair; and until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing (such as\nit is), I never can compose for it. My way is: I consider the poetic\nsentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, then\nchoose my theme, begin one stanza; when that is composed, which is\ngenerally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down\nnow and then, look out for objects in nature around me that are in\nunison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my\nbosom; humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have\nframed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary\nfireside of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper; swinging\nat intervals on the hind legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth\nmy own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home,\nis almost invariably my way. What cursed egotism!\n\n\"Gil Morice\" I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy length; the air itself\nis never sung, and its place can well be supplied by one or two songs\nfor fine airs that are not in your list. For instance,\n\"Craigieburn-wood\" and \"Roy's Wife\". The first, besides its intrinsic\nmerit, has novelty; and the last has high merit, as well as great\ncelebrity. I have the original words of a song for the last air in the\nhandwriting of the lady who composed it, and they are superior to any\nedition of the song which the public has yet seen.\n\n\"Highland Laddie\". The old set will please a mere Scotch ear best; and\nthe new an Italianised one. There is a third, and what Oswald calls the\n\"Old Highland Laddie\", which pleases we more than either of them. It is\nsometimes called \"Jinglan Johnnie\", it being the air of an old humorous\ntawdry song of that name. You will find it in the Museum, \"I hae been at\nCrookie-den,\" etc. I would advise you in this musical quandary, to offer\nup your prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; and, in the\nmeantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to Bacchus, and\nthere is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious choice.\n_Probatum est_.\n\n\"Auld Sir Simon,\" I must beg you to leave out, and put in its place \"The\nQuaker's Wife\".\n\n\"Blythe hae I been on yon hill\" is one of the finest songs ever I made\nin my life; and, besides, is composed on a young lady positively the\nmost beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you the\nnames and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some future\nedition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly\ninclude _the bonniest lass in a' the warld_ in your collection.\n\n\"Daintie Davie\" I have heard sung nineteen thousand, nine hundred, and\nninety-nine times, and always with the low part of the tune; and nothing\nhas surprised me so much as your opinion on this subject. If it will not\nsuit, as I propose, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then\nmake the chorus follow.\n\n\"Fee him, Father\". I enclose you Frazer's set of this tune when he plays\nit slow; in fact, he makes it the language of despair, I shall here give\nyou two stanzas in that style, merely to try if it will be any\nimprovement. Were it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos\nwhich Frazer gives it in playing, it would make an admirable pathetic\nsong. I do not give these verses for any merit they have. I composed\nthem at the time at which _Patie Allan's mither died_; that was _the\nback o' midnight_; and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had\noverset every mortal in the company, except the hautbois and the muse.\n\n  Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, (etc.)\n\n\"Jockie and Jenny\" I would discard, and in its place would put \"There's\nnae luck about the house\", which has a very pleasant air; and which is\npositively the finest love-ballad in that style in the Scottish, or\nperhaps in any other language. \"When she came ben she bobbet\", as an\nair, is more beautiful than either, and in the _andante_ way would unite\nwith a charming sentimental ballad.\n\n\"Saw ye my father\" is one of my greatest favourites. The evening before\nlast I wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I think its native\nstyle. I must premise that the old way, and the way to give most effect,\nis to have no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at\nonce into the pathos. Every country girl sings-\"Saw ye my father\", etc.\n\nMy song is just begun; and I should like, before I proceed, to know your\nopinion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dialect, but it may\nbe easily turned into correct English.\n\n    Fragment.--Tune--\"_Saw ye my Father_\"\n  Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, (etc.)\n\n\"Todlin hame\": Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long been\nmine; and this air is highly susceptible of pathos; accordingly, you\nwill soon hear him, at your concert, try it to a song of mine in the\n_Museum_--\"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon\". One song more and I have\ndone: \"Auld lang syne\". The air is but _mediocre_; but the following\nsong, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in\nprint, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's\nsinging, is enough to recommend any air.[144]\n\n    AULD LANG SYNE.\n  Should auld acquaintance be forgot, (etc.)\n\nNow, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is\nover, have a number of ballads, properly so called, \"Gil Morice\",\n\"Tranent Muir\", \"M'Pherson's Farewell\", \"Battle of Sheriff-Muir\", or \"We\nran and they ran\" (I know the author of this charming ballad, and his\nhistory); \"Hardiknute\", \"Barbara Allan\" (I can furnish a finer set of\nthis tune than any that has yet appeared), and besides, do you know that\nI really have the old tune to which \"The Cherry and the Slae\" was sung?\nand which is mentioned as a well-known air in _Scotland's Complaint_, a\nbook published before poor Mary's days. It was then called \"The Banks o'\nHelicon\"; an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see\nall this in Tytler's _History of Scottish Music_. The tune, to a learned\near, may have no great merit; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good\nmany original things of this kind.\n\n   [Footnote 143: Songs for his publication. Burns goes through the\n   whole; but only his remarks of any importance are presented here.]\n\n   [Footnote 144: It is believed to have been his own composition.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XV",
    "body": "_September_ 1793.\n\n\"Who shall decide when doctors disagree?\" My ode[145] pleases me so much\nthat I cannot alter it. Your proposed alterations would, in my opinion,\nmake it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on\nreconsidering it; as I think I have much improved it. Instead of\n\"sodger! hero!\" I will have it \"Caledonian! on wi' me!\"\n\nI have scrutinised it over and over; and to the world some way or other\nit shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in the least hurt me,\nshould you leave it out altogether, and adhere to your first intention\nof adopting Logan's verses.\n\nI have finished my song to \"Saw ye my Father;\" and in English, as you\nwill see. That there is a syllable too much for the _expression_ of the\nair, is true; but allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted\ncrotchet into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great matter; however, in\nthat, I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry\nI speak with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my\nideas with the utmost diffidence.\n\n   [Footnote 145: Scots wha hae.]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XVI",
    "body": "_May_ 1794.\n\nMy Dear Sir,--I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased. I\nwould humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put\na stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the\nablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and though an unknown,\nis yet a superior artist with the _burin_, is quite charmed with Allan's\nmanner. I got him a peep of the \"Gentle Shepherd\", and he pronounces\nAllan a most original artist of great excellence.\n\nFor my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem for his\nsubject to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received.\n\nI am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will put\nan entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall be\nquite in song, as you shall see by-and-by. I got an air, pretty enough,\ncomposed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls \"The Banks\nof Cree.\" Cree is a beautiful romantic stream, and, as her ladyship is a\nparticular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it:--\n\n  Here is the glen, and here the bower, (etc.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XVII",
    "body": "_Sept_. 1794.\n\nI shall withdraw my \"On the seas and far away\" altogether; it is\nunequal, and unworthy of the work. Making a poem is like begetting a\nson; you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you\nproduce him to the world and try him.\n\nFor that reason I have sent you the offspring of my brain, abortions and\nall; and as such, pray look over them, and forgive them, and burn them.\nI am flattered at your adopting \"Ca' the yowes to the knowes\", as it was\nowing to me that it ever saw the light. About seven years ago I was well\nacquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who\nsung it charmingly: and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his\nsinging. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song,\nand mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a solitary\nstroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines,\nfollowing up the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is,\nwith all its crudities and imperfections on its head.\n\n  Ca' the yowes, (etc.)\n\nI shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs, my first\nscribbling fit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XVIII",
    "body": "19_th October_ 1794.\n\nMy Dear Friend,--By this morning's post I have your list, and, in\ngeneral, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a\ncritique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I\nwish you would call on him and take his opinion in general; you know his\ntaste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or two, so\nplease do not miss asking for him. One thing I hope he will do--persuade\nyou to adopt my favourite, \"Craigie-burn wood\", in your selection; it is\nas great a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is\none of the finest women in Scotland; and, in fact (_entre nous_), is in\na manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him--a mistress, a friend, or\nwhat you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't\nput any of your squinting constructions on this, or have any\nclishmaclaiver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure you that to\nmy lovely friend you are indebted for many of your best songs of mine.\nDo you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could inspire\na man with life, and love, and joy--could fire him with enthusiasm, or\nmelt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no! Whenever\nI want to be more than ordinary _in song_--to be in some degree equal to\nyour diviner airs--do you imagine I fast and pray for the divine\nemanation? _Tout au contraire_! I have a glorious recipe--the very one\nthat for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry,\nwhen erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself on a regimen\nof admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her\ncharms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of\nher eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the\ndivinity of Helicon!\n\nTo descend to business; if you like my idea of \"When she cam ben she\nbobbit\", the enclosed stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they\nwere formerly when set to another air, may perhaps do instead of\nworse stanzas.\n\nNow for a few miscellaneous remarks. \"The Posie\" (in the _Museum_) is my\ncomposition; the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well\nknown in the West Country, but the old words are trash. By-the-bye, take\na look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it is the\noriginal from which \"Roslin Castle\" is composed. The second part in\nparticular, for the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air.\n\"Strathallan's Lament\" is mine; the music is by our right trusty and\ndeservedly well beloved, Allan Masterton. \"Donocht head\" is not mine; I\nwould give ten pounds if it were. It appeared first in the _Edinburgh\nHerald_; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle\npost-mark on it[146]\n\n\"Whistle o'er the lave o't\" is mine; the music is said to be by a John\nBruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about the beginning of\nthis century. This I know, Bruce, who was an honest man, though a redwud\nHighlandman, constantly claimed it; and by all the old musical people\nhere is believed to be the author of it.\n\n\"Andrew and his cutty gun\". The song to which this is set in the\n_Museum_ is mine; and was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose,\ncommonly and deservedly called the \"Flower of Strathmore.\"\n\n\"How lang and dreary is the night.\" I met with some such words in a\ncollection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged; and to\nplease you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two\nacross the room, and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the\nother page.\n\n  Tune--_Cauld Kail in Aberdeen_.\n  How lang and dreary is the night, (etc.)\n\nTell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the expression of\nthe tune. There is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it.\n\nI would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of Ritson's\n_Collection of English Songs_, which you mention in your letter. I will\nthank you for another information, and that as speedily as you\nplease--whether this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not\ncompletely tired you of my correspondence.\n\n   [Footnote 146:\n\n    \"Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht head,\n    The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale,\n    The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck,\n    And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale.\n    \"Cauld is the night, O let me in,\n    And dinna let your minstrel fa',\n    And dinna let his winding-sheet\n    Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.\"(etc.)]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XIX",
    "body": "_November_ 1794.\n\nMany thanks to you, my dear sir, for your present: it is a book of the\nutmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, etc., for\nyour work. I intend drawing it up in the form of a letter to you, which\nwill save me from the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement.\nIndeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes,\nscraps of old songs, etc., it would be impossible to give the work a\nbeginning, a middle, and an end; which the critics insist to be\nabsolutely necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to\nthe song you had selected for \"My lodging is on the cold ground\". On my\nvisit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name of the\nlovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, which I, on my\nreturn from the visit, wrought into the following song:--\n\n  My Chloris, mark how green the groves, (etc,)\n\nHow do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this pastoral? I think\nit pretty well.\n\nI like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of _ma\nchlre amie_. I assure you, I was never more in earnest in my life than\nin the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love\nis a passion which I deeply feel and highly venerate; but, somehow, it\ndoes not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of\nthe passion,\n\n  Where Love is liberty, and Nature law,\n\nMusically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the gamut is\nscanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet; while the last\nhas powers equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul.\nStill, I am a very poet, in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare\nand happiness of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment\nthat pervades my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or\nwhatever might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they\ninterfere with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a\ndishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains,\nthe purchase!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XX",
    "body": "I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an air, as\n\"Deil tak the wars,\" to the foolish old verses. You talk of the\nsilliness of \"Saw ye my father:\" by heavens, the odds is gold to brass!\nBesides, the old song, though now pretty well modernised into the\nScottish language, is, originally, and in the early editions, a bungling\nlow imitation of the Scottish manner, by that genius, Tom D'Urfey; so\nhas no pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is a pretty\nEnglish song by Sheridan in the \"Duenna,\" to this air, which is out of\nsight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins,\n\n  When sable night each drooping plant restoring.\n\nThe air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very\nnative language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone\nover my song to the tune as follows.[147]\n\nThere is an air, \"The Caledonian Hunt's delight\", to which I wrote a\nsong that you will find in Johnson. \"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon\";\nthis air, I think, might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says\nof his knights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious\nenough. A good many years ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your good\ntown, a gentleman whom possibly you know, was in company with our friend\nClarke; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent\nambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of\njoke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and\npreserve some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots\nair. Certain it is, that in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the\nrudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and\ncorrections, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, has\nthe same story of the \"Black keys;\" but this account which I have just\ngiven you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several years ago. Now, to shew you\nhow difficult it is to trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it\nrepeatedly asserted that this was an Irish air nay, I met with an Irish\ngentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women;\nwhile, on the other hand, a countess informed me, that the first person\nwho introduced the air into this country was a baronet's lady of her\nacquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the\nIsle of Man. How difficult then to ascertain the truth respecting our\npoesy and music! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung\nthrough the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the\nauthor, though it was the first time I had ever seen them.\n\nI am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; 'tis dunning your\ngenerosity; but in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or\npoor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride\nto write you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so, by a tedious\napology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the\nnecessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes.\n\nThe lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a\nfigure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in\nmy power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my\npaper is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to\ngive over.\n\n   [Footnote 147: Our Bard remarks upon it, \"I could easily throw this\n   into an English mould; but, to my taste, in the simple and the tender\n   of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an\n   inimitable effect.\"]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXI",
    "body": "19_th Nov_. 1794.\n\nTell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling\ncircumstance of being known to one another to be the best friends on\nearth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of\nthe stock and horn. I have, at last, gotten one; but it is a very rude\ninstrument. It is composed of three parts; the stock, which is the\nhinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton-ham, the horn,\nwhich is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until\nthe aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through\nthe horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; and,\nlastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that which you see\nevery shepherd boy have, when the corn stems are green and full-grown.\nThe reed is not made fast in the bone, but is held up by the lips, and\nplays loose in the smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the\nhorn hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The\nstock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back ventige,\nlike the common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the Braes of\nAthole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country.\n\nHowever, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we\nhave not the art of blowing it rightly; for we can make little of it. If\nMr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine; as I look on myself\nto be a kind of brother-brush with him. \"Pride in poets is nae sin\", and\nI will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only\ngenuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXII",
    "body": "_January_ 1795.\n\nI fear for my songs; however a few may please, yet originality is a coy\nfeature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the same\nstyle, disappears altogether. For these three thousand years we poetic\nfolks have been describing the spring, for instance; and, as the spring\ncontinues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the imagery, etc.,\nof these said rhyming folks.\n\nA great critic, Aikin on Songs, says that love and wine are the\nexclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject,\nand consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or\nthree pretty good prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme.\n\n  FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.\n  Is there for honest poverty, (etc.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXIII",
    "body": "Ecclefechan,[148] 7_th Feb_. 1795.\n\nMy Dear Thomson,--You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I\nwrite to you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity\nI have acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked\nlittle village. I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have\nimpeded my progress: I have tried to \"gae back the gate I cam again,\"\nbut the same obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to\nmy misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in\nsounds that would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the\nhands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding\ngood company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, to\nforget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them; like a\nprudent man (a character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed)\nI of two evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk at your service!\n\nI wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to tell you all\nI wanted to say; and Heaven knows, at present I have not capacity.\n\nDo you know an air--I am sure you must know it, \"We'll gang nae mair to\nyon town?\" I think, in slowish time, it would make an excellent song. I\nam highly delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your\nattention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would consecrate it.\n\nAs I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night.\n\n   [Footnote 148: The birthplace of Carlyle.]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXIV",
    "body": "You see how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more\npunctual. I am just now in a high fit of poetising, provided that the\nstrait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can, in a post or two,\nadminister a little of the intoxicating potion of your applause, it will\nraise your humble servant's frenzy to any height you want. I am at this\nmoment \"holding high converse\" with the Muses, and have not a word to\nthrow away on such a prosaic dog as you are.\n\n       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXV",
    "body": "_April_ 1796.\n\nAlas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre\nagain! \"By Babel streams I have sat and wept\" almost ever since I wrote\nyou last. I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand\nof sickness, and have counted time by the repercussions of pain!\nRheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. I\nclose my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the\nvernal day, and say, with poor Fergusson--\n\n  Say, wherefore has an all indulgent Heaven\n  Light to the comfortless and wretched given?\n\nThis will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe\nTavern here, which for these many years has been my _howff_, and where\nour friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly\ndelighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. \"Woo'd and married and a'\", is\nadmirable! The _grouping_ is beyond all praise. The expression of the\nfigures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless\nperfection. I next admire \"Turnim-spike\". What I like least is, \"Jenny\nsaid to Jockey\". Besides the female being in her appearance quite a\nvirago, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two\ninches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I sincerely sympathise with\nhim! Happy am I to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health\nand enjoyment in this world. As for me--but that is a damning subject!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXVI",
    "body": "[_Probably May_ 1796.]\n\nMy Dear Sir,--Inclosed is a certificate which (although little different\nfrom the model) I suppose will amply answer the purpose, and I beg you\nwill prosecute the miscreants[149] without mercy. When your publication\nis finished, I intend publishing a collection, on a cheap plan, of all\nthe songs I have written for you, The Museum, and others--at least, all\nthe songs of which I wish to be called the author. I do not propose this\nso much in the way of emolument as to do justice to my muse, lest I\nshould be blamed for trash I never saw, or be defrauded by false\nclaimants of what is justly my own. The post is going.--I will write you\nagain to-morrow. Many thanks for the beautiful seal.\n\nR. B.\n\n   [Footnote 149: For infringement of copyright.]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXVII",
    "body": "BROW-ON-SOLWAY, 4_th July_ 1796.\n\nMy Dear Sir,--I received your songs; but my health is so precarious,\nnay, dangerously situated, that, as a last effort, I am here at\nsea-bathing quarters. Besides an inveterate rheumatism, my appetite is\nquite gone, and I am so emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself\non my own legs. Alas! Is this a time for me to woo the muses? However, I\nam still anxiously willing to serve your work, and if possible shall\ntry. I would not like to see another employed--unless you could lay your\nhand upon a poet whose productions would be equal to the rest. Farewell,\nand God bless you.\n\nR. BURNS.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  },
  {
    "heading": "Letter XXVIII",
    "body": "BROW, on the Solway Firth, 12_th July_ 1796.\n\nAfter all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore\nyou for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an\naccount, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a\nprocess, and will infallibly put me into jail.\n\nDo, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post.\nForgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half\ndistracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning\nhealth, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds\nworth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on\n\"Rothiemurchie\" this morning. The measure is so difficult that it is\nimpossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other\nside. Forgive, forgive me![150]\n\n  Fairest maid on Devon banks,\n  Crystal Devon, winding Devon,\n  Wilt thou lay that frown aside,\n  And smile as thou wert wont to do? (etc.)\n\n   [Footnote 150: These verses, and the letter inclosing them, are\n   written in a character that marks the very feeble state of\n   their author.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Letters of Robert Burns, by Robert Burns",
    "author": "Robert Burns",
    "recipient": "Clarinda (Agnes McLehose)",
    "source": "Letters of Robert Burns to Clarinda",
    "period": "1787–1794"
  }
]